


The Jericho Job

by giantteenwolforgy



Series: The Crew [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Leverage Fusion, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Found Family, Gen, Heists, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, Stanford Era (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28842528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giantteenwolforgy/pseuds/giantteenwolforgy
Summary: Conning people, stealing things. The Family Business. According to John Winchester, that is. Too bad their family is nonexistent. Sam’s at Stanford, Dean’s working with Charlie, and John’s off the grid, doing God knows what.When he finally checks in, it’s with nothing but a cryptic order to steal a ledger. A ledger hidden inside some sort of bigshot security company with sinister ties. They can’t do it alone. This kind of job needs a crew. (Preferably one that’s more sophisticated than the ragtag bunch they gather on short notice, but hey. Beggars can’t be choosers.)Dean’s pretty sure they’re going to end up killing each other before this job is over. But they might end up reinventing the family business along the way too.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: The Crew [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2114904
Comments: 15
Kudos: 58





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

> This is a labor of love that's been kicking around in my head for y-e-a-r-s. With the announcement of the Leverage series returning, I couldn't help but NOT write it!
> 
> This is the first installment in the series. If you like it, the next one will be called "The Tell-Tale Heart Job", so stay tuned and let me know what you think :)

Dean could pick a lock in his sleep, so he makes quick work of the shitty apartment door. His fingers deftly maneuver the picks in the dark until the door clicks open, but the alarm that starts insistently beeping makes him freeze.

Dean’s not a thief and he’s not a hacker. He wasn’t prepared for an _alarm_. Fancy alarm for a fancy lawyer. Dean rolls his eyes. He should’ve known. 

It’s an amateur mistake—to break in somewhere without knowing everything about it. His dad would knock him upside the head for it. Hell, _Charlie_ would knock him upside the head if she knew he came here alone. As soon as she finds out he snuck away, he’s going to get an earful. But Dean’s desperate. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.

His normal line of defense against a security alarm is to already know the code. Or to have Charlie work some nerdy magic. Dean could guess at a few different codes here, but the suspicious creak of a bedroom door across the room lets him know he doesn’t have time. So much for the element of surprise. He curses and stands up, hands raised and a sheepish smile curling on his face.

“Hey—” he starts, but a shadowy figure launches itself out of the room, yelling and swinging something wildly at Dean.

He side-steps on instinct, tackles the shadow to the ground and rips the—baseball bat? Jesus—out of his hand. He gets a sharp elbow to the face for his trouble, and feels a rush of blood in his mouth as his teeth cut into his cheek.

Dean’s not a hitter, not normally. Fighting isn’t his thing, but that doesn’t mean he can’t do it.

His brother, on the other hand, has gone soft. Sam’s taller than he remembers and seems a little less gangly, but he’s spent too much time spent hunched over file folders. It’s easy to flip Sam over, stick a knee into his back and pin his arms behind him. Sam’s still struggling underneath under him, spitting curses at him and craning his neck to try and see his attacker (which is a fucking _stupid_ thing to do when you’re losing a fight), but then a shaft of moonlight must hit Dean’s face just the right way. Abruptly, Sam stops squirming.

“ _Dean?_ ” he chokes, like he’s seen a ghost.

Dean offers him a bloody smile. “Heya, Sammy. Long time no see.”

Sam tries to yank away again, and this time Dean lets him go. Sam staggers away from him, toward the phone that’s started to ring. Dean brings a hand up to his jaw gingerly. Yeah. That’s gonna bruise.

“No, it’s a—false alarm,” Sam’s saying into the phone, still eyeing Dean with wide, freaked out eyes. He crosses the room and punches a code into the alarm box. Dean clocks it without even trying. 1-2-5-5-4. 12/5/54. Mom’s birthday. Fucking stupid to have an alarm when the code is so obvious. “You don’t need to send the police. Thanks.”

Sam hangs up and closes the door, clicking the lock back into place. He pauses there with his back to Dean, like it’s easier to look at a door than at his brother. Classic.

“Nice to know it’s just _my_ calls you’re screening.”

Sam sighs, and turns to look at him. He looks exhausted. “What are you doing here, Dean?”

“Maybe I missed my little brother.”

“Sure,” Sam snorts. “That’s why you showed up in the middle of the night and didn’t bother to knock.”

“Maybe I figured you wouldn’t answer the door.” Dean lets his voice turn sharp with bitterness. “I wasn’t calling just to call, Sam. I need your help.”

Sam’s already shaking his head. “When will you and dad _get it_ , Dean? I don’t want to be a—a criminal. I don’t want to always be running!”

It would almost be funny, if it weren’t so fucking sad. Dean Winchester; Grifter Extraordinaire. He can talk his way into auctions and out of trouble just by smiling the right way, but he can’t convince his own family not to walk out on him.

“Did Dad send you?” Sam asks suddenly.

Dean bristles at the assumption. “Dad doesn’t _send_ me places, Sam. Besides, we haven’t worked together in like two years.”

This seems to surprise Sam. His eyebrows twitch up. “You’ve been doing jobs alone?”

_What did you expect? You left and Dad took it out on me. You’re the only thing we ever had in common anyway._

Dean bites the words back. “Just because I didn’t go to college doesn’t mean I’m an _idiot_ , Sam. I’ve got a partner. A hacker. I don’t—I don’t know about Dad. Pretty sure he’s been alone.”

“Yeah.” Sam shakes his head, letting out a humorless huff of laughter. “Sounds like Dad.”

“Look, he…he’s in trouble. He was casing a joint last time I talked to him. Some big security company in Jericho. Hadn’t heard from him in a few days, but then he sent me instructions for a job. Said it’s life or death.”

Dean knows what Sam’s thinking. It’s the same thing Dean was thinking the whole drive over here. _What would John Winchester want with a security company?_ John’s built for smash and grabs. Quick jobs at an art gallery or a mansion. Security companies have cameras and guards and safes. Those kinds of jobs require _finesse_.

Dean might have learned how to get what he wanted without using his fists, but his dad is another story. John Winchester was— _is_ , Dean reminds himself sharply—a hitter through and through. His dad’s never liked Dean’s penchant for talking; always thought there were easier, bloodier ways to get what he needs. Dean never knew how to tell him that it was _his_ fault he turned into such a good con man. Dad used to leave him and Sam alone so often, that Dean _had_ to learn how to talk. How to deflect attention from concerned adults, how to find a way to get food for him and Sammy. Throwing punches at adults wouldn’t have helped anything, especially not when you were a kid as scrawny as Dean.

But John Winchester never learned that art. And it _is_ an art. Dean can read his marks like a well-loved paperback. Can tell exactly what they want; what they need to hear. Can turn a conversation into an argument, make that argument into a seduction, finagle things so they always come out in his favor. Half the time his marks just give him whatever he’s looking for. It’s the one thing Dean’s good at.

The one thing _John’s_ good at is throwing punches. He’s never seemed to understand that you can’t get what you want by brute force, not all the time.

If this job went bad for John, it probably went _really_ bad.

“What do you mean he sent you instructions?” Sam asks.

Dean digs a napkin out of his pocket and reads: “Free Will Enterprises. Break in at night. Key Card will get you up to sixth floor. Room 612. Find ledger in safe. Code 08973.”

Sam snatches the napkin out of Dean’s hands. “What? What the hell does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” Dean mutters. He sinks down on Sam’s couch, rubbing a tired hand through his hair. “He doesn’t exactly tell me much. Won’t answer my calls. Just told me it was life or death and rattled off those instructions. He’s lucky I had a pen handy. The whole phone call lasted maybe a minute.”

“So, what? Dad tried to steal this ledger and couldn’t? And now he’s on the run and wants you to grab it?”

“I don’t _know_ , Sam.” Dean feels suddenly, glaringly, out of place. He doesn’t belong here. He shouldn’t have come. He doesn’t know why he did. It’s like a compulsion. Like picking at a scab until it starts bleeding again. 

Sam ignores him. “You’re not going to try to steal this, are you?”

“Of course, I am. He's in trouble, Sam!”

“Then this is _his_ problem."

“Well, that’s not the way I see it.” He stands up, slapping his hands on his thighs. Plasters a big, fake smile on his face like a band-aid. “Forget it, Sammy. No hard feelings. I know you’ve got other shit to worry about.”

“Dean,” Sam says helplessly. “Stop. This is a terrible plan. No wonder Dad got caught. You can’t just waltz into places like this.”

Dean plucks the napkin out of Sam’s hands, rereading the instructions even though he has them memorized already. “I don’t have another option. It’s not like you’re offering to help.”

“I’m just—I’m doing an internship. And _school_. I can’t just take off for a week.”

The tone of his voice makes Dean pause.

“What if I promise to have you back here by Monday?” he asks. “Would you be able to help then?”

Sam closes his eyes. Makes a decision that he looks like he hates. “I need to be back by Sunday.”

Dean rocks on his heels, doing some quick calculations. It’s technically Saturday, even though the sun’s not up yet. That gives him, what, a day and a half with his brother? A day and a half to steal this ledger. It’s cutting it close, but he’d have to be an idiot to pass that up. “Okay. Sure. I can swing that. Sunday.” He grins. “We probably won’t even have to break any laws.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Dean.” Sam sighs. “Let me pack a bag.”


	2. Sam

As much as Sam hates to admit it, he missed the Impala. The smell of her; the rumble of the engine; the hypnotic rush of the highway beneath them.

Sam used to think that he would hate getting back in this car, but he doesn’t. It’s comforting. Nice. …Even _with_ Dean singing along to _Africa_ by Toto at the top of his lungs.

The Impala was home for so many years, that Sam supposes it was naïve to think it wouldn’t bring back any good memories.

It’s hard to remember that it wasn’t all just screaming matches and silent treatments. The last few years, before he left—yeah, those were bad. But even in that time, there were nice moments. That time Dean let him borrow the car to take Lindsey out on a date in senior year. The time in Texas, when they found a snake curled up on the back floorboard and Dean had screamed so loud, Sam cried from laughing.

That time Dean had taken him for a drive after that first big argument with Dad. Dad had been yelling at him, and for once in his life, Sam had yelled right back. Dean had been shouting at both of them, trying to shove them apart until he managed to shove Sam right out the door and into the Impala. Dean had rolled down the windows and cranked up the music and they flew down the road until Sam felt like he could almost breathe again.

Blessedly, the song finally ends and Dean turns down the volume, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“So, what’ve you been up to, Sammy? You still with that girl? Jess?”

 _Christ_. Has it really been that long since he’s talked to his brother? A little bit of guilt pokes at him, but he shoves it away. He’s been busy. Busy taking the LSAT and getting into law school. Busy finding an internship that he would be able to juggle while studying. “No,” Sam finally says. “We, uh. We broke up a while ago.”

“Oh,” Dean taps his fingers some more. “Guess I missed the memo.”

“Yeah. She thought I was too emotionally unavailable or something.”

Dean snorts. “Chicks, man.”

“Well. She was right.” Sam searches for something to say. “I’ve been interning at this law office. Sandover and Sons. If things go well, I might have a job lined up before I graduate.”

“Nice,” Dean whistles. “You get to work on any cool cases?”

 _Yeah, the case of what they want me to get them from the coffee shop each day._ “A few.”

“Really? You get to cross-examine anyone yet? Catch them in a lie?”

“Uh, no. Definitely not. They don’t let the interns do that.”

Dean shrugs. “Figures. All I know about lawyers, I learned from _Legally Blonde_.”

Sam has _questions_ about this—but Dean’s phone starts blaring and he winces, digging it out of his pocket.

“Shit,” he mutters, before answering: “Hey, Charlie. Don’t yell at me.”

Sam frowns.

“I know, I know,” Dean’s groaning. “I said _don’t_ yell at me. Okay, can we have this conversation with coffee? Please? We’ll be there in a few hours. Ugh, don’t look at my GPS information. That’s creepy. Yes, I said _we_. As in me and Sam. Okay, _bye_ Charlie.”

“Who’s Charlie?” Sam asks immediately.

“My partner,” Dean reminds him. “The hacker. You’ll like her; she’s awesome.”

Sam purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything else. He’s not prepared to _like_ anyone on this trip. He’s prepared to grit his teeth and get this over with. He only has to do it for a day, then it’s back to Palo Alto and studying and making coffee runs for the real lawyers. Back to normal.

***

Every time Sam thinks about his old life, he remembers dingy motel rooms and seedy bars. Places where people could go to lay low and exist under the radar. Places you could lose yourself in if you weren’t careful. Sam’s bracing himself for more of the same. When Dean pulls up to a chic little coffee shop, he stares in surprise.

“ _This_ is where we’re meeting Charlie?” he asks.

“Yeah?” Dean says, a little defensively. “What, all of a sudden you don’t like coffee?”

“No—I just. I don’t know.”

Dean shrugs and climbs out of the car. Sam follows him, eyes scanning the coffee shop and trying to guess who Charlie might be—

“Dean!” Someone shouts from a table off to the side. “Sam! Over here!”

Sam follows Dean over to the table, incredulity mounting with each step. Charlie is…not what Sam expected.

She’s smiling brightly at them both, a laptop covered with colorful stickers parked in front of her. She has a bright purple shirt on that proclaims her a _Proud Member of S.P.E.W_. and a million buttons pinned onto the messenger bag at her feet.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Charlie. You’re taller than Dean made you seem.”

Sam scowls at Dean, who grins into a cup of coffee that Charlie slid over to him. Sam sits down and gets a cup slid over to him too. He stares at it in surprise.

“I just got you black coffee, Sam. Hope that’s okay. I wasn’t sure you’d want as much sugar as Heart Attack over here likes.”

“Hey,” Dean pouts. “You’re one to judge. How many cups of coffee have you already had today?”

“A lady never tells,” Charlie says primly. “And a gentleman shouldn’t ask.”

“Black coffee’s fine,” Sam interrupts, feeling more discombobulated than he thought he would. “So, you work with Dean? No offense, but you’re not exactly what I was picturing.”

“Oh? You _weren’t_ picturing a raging lesbian with a caffeine addiction and a problem with authority?”

“Uh.” Sam blinks, trying not to smile. Dammit, Dean was right. He _does_ like Charlie. “Definitely not.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not a disappointment,” Sam assures her. He gestures to her shirt. “Anyone who shares my commitment to house elf rights is someone I’m happy to meet.”

Charlie’s whole face lights up and she holds out a fist for Sam to bump. Dean rolls his eyes and groans good-naturedly into his coffee. “Great. Now there’s two of them. Can we _focus_ , please? Did you find out anything new about Free Will Enterprises?”

“Oh, _now_ you want to talk. After you skipped out to Palo Alto without so much as a note! I wouldn’t _have_ to track your phone if you would tell me where you were going, Dean—”

Sam hides a laugh in his coffee mug as Dean’s face transforms into righteous indignation.

“So, you’ve been working with Dean for a while?” Sam puts in.

“Yep,” Charlie grins. “Almost a year. I adopted him. There’s no way he’s getting rid of me now.”

Dean rolls his eyes and points at her computer. “ _Talk_ , Red.”

Charlie sobers slightly, tapping quickly on the keys of her computer. “Yeah. Okay. I did find something. You guys are probably not gonna like it.”

Dean stiffens next to him and Sam feels his good humor fading. “What is it?”

“It’s an email chain. Do you guys know anyone named Frank Devereaux?”

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t. Dean?”

“Me neither.”

“Well, your Dad was in contact with him. He seems like a weird conspiracy nut. Gave your dad all this info on Free Will Enterprises. Frank sent him names of the guards, blueprints, schedules—the works. He seems convinced that Free Will is responsible for a bunch of deaths all over the country. According to Frank they do a lot of run of the mill security work. But sometimes they get hired by really rich customers. Frank thinks they’re involved in murder-for-hire.”

“What?” Dean chokes.

“According to Frank, Free Will gets hired to take out the customer’s enemies. Or their competitors, or annoying ex-husbands…whoever they want to kill, really.”

Sam shifts forward on his seat. “Assassins for hire? That’s crazy.”

“Yeah. I told you this guy was a little out there.”

“And now Dad wants us to steal from them?” Dean asks. “What the hell is even in this ledger?”

Charlie chews on her lip. “Your dad was really interested in finding a list of their customers. Frank told him they didn’t keep records of that stuff online, and your dad said he would go in and get it himself. That was the last email between them.”

Dean crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “You’re telling me that John Winchester risked his neck for a list of names? Why?”

Charlie shrugs. “Don’t ask me. He’s _your_ dad.”

It doesn’t make sense to Sam, but that’s not saying much. He’s never understood John Winchester. “What about signs of life? I’m assuming you can look up phone and credit card activity?”

“Yeah. Dean’s had me tracking that for days. So far, there’s been nothing.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Dean cuts in. “Dad knows how to go off the grid. Maybe he tried to grab the ledger and things went south. If he’s got assassins for hire after him, he could be lying low until things cool down.”

“You believe this assassins for hire crap?” Sam asked incredulously. “Dean, this guy Dad was talking to sounds like a nut job!”

“What do you want me to say, Sam? _Something_ happened to drive Dad underground.” He pulls out the napkin and slaps it down on the table in front of Sam. “He asked me to get this ledger. I can’t just leave him hanging.” 

Sam stares at him, dumbfounded. He has no doubts that John’s _request_ was more of an _order_. He will never understand Dean’s obsession with trying to make their dad proud. It never works.

“Let me get this straight,” Charlie says, massaging her temples. “Are we really going to break into a high-tech security company for a list of names that’s worth exactly _zero_ dollars?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Sam snaps. “Jesus Christ, Dean. Did you learn nothing from Dad?”

“You said you would help,” Dean snaps, voice low. “Why are you even here if you don’t want to help Dad?”

“I’m not doing this for _Dad_ , Dean. I’m doing this for you.”

Dean stares at him, like he doesn’t know what to do with Sam’s words. “What?”

“I owe you—”

“You don’t _owe me_ —”

“I owe you, Dean! I do. Dad never did me any favors, but you…” Sam sighs. “Look, I know you’re the one who pays my tuition. Dad was going to leave me hanging. Hell, he left us both hanging all our lives. But you always made sure I had food to eat and clothes to wear. I know that my life has been easier than yours. Because I had _you_ to look out for me. So this time, _I’m_ looking out for _you_. If Dad got mixed up in something he shouldn’t have, I’m not letting him drag you down with him.”

Dean is glaring at the table, looking like he’d rather get a root canal than have this conversation. At least _that’s_ still the same after all these years. “You don’t owe me for that, Sam. I did all that because you’re my family. Because that’s what family _does_.”

“Then why didn’t Dad do it? It was his job, Dean! Not yours.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Dean asks, voice pained. His eyes are closed. “You think I didn’t ask myself every damn day why dad couldn’t pull his shit together and be a father? But he’s still our _dad_ , Sam. God, you are just like him. Just walk away when the going gets tough, huh?”

The words sting, just like Dean probably knew they would. Sam has counter-arguments—and counter-arguments to Dean’s counter-arguments—but it won’t do any good right now. Sometimes he thinks he went to law school, just so he could learn how to debate his dysfunctional family. “I’m not saying we walk away,” he says finally. “But we can’t just go in, fists flying, like he probably did.”

“We _won’t_. He didn’t have a Charlie.”

Charlie perks up under the praise, but Sam isn’t swayed. “You know what else Dad didn’t have? He didn’t have a crew. And neither do you guys. Charlie’s a hacker and you’re a grifter and I’m…whatever I am. But a job like this needs a full crew. We need a thief and we need a hitter. There’s no way this works with just the three of us. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right.”

“He has a point,” Charlie says hesitantly.

“ _Of_ _course_ , he has a point. He’s a lawyer!” Dean groans and rubs a hand through his hair agitatedly. “Ugh. Fine. Do you have any favors you can call in, Charlie? Anyone that can get here by tonight?”

Charlie’s already typing. “I _always_ have favors I can call in. Leave it to me.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah. Just tell them a law school student, a nerd, and a high school dropout need some back up. They’ll be begging to come join the Dream Team.”

Sam’s never known how to handle Dean when he gets all self-deprecating like that. But Charlie doesn’t bat an eye.

“Excuse you,” she scoffs. “That would be a law school student and _two_ high school dropouts, thank you very much.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but there’s a grateful smile on his face and his shoulders are a little bit straighter. He grabs Charlie’s empty coffee cup and pushes away from the table to refill it at the counter. For the first time, Sam realizes that Dean and Charlie aren’t just partners. They’re _friends_.

Sam watches Dean while he waits for Charlie’s refill. He's not even _trying_ to flirt with the barista. “He’s changed, hasn’t he?” Sam says. “In some ways he’s the same, but in a lot of ways he’s different.”

“Yep,” Charlie grins. “He’s more himself now.”

More _himself_? “Huh.” Sam shakes his head. “It’s like I don’t know my own brother.”

Charlie snorts. “He’s still _Dean_. You’ll get to know him again. Assuming you keep in touch after you go back to Palo Alto this time.”

Sam flinches. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I will.”

Charlie hums a little, like she doesn’t quite believe him. It’s fair. Sam doesn’t know if he believes himself.


	3. Dean

Prepping for a job is second nature at this point. Dean leaves Charlie to work her magic and try to find them some backup that’s close enough to pinch hit. He hopes whoever she finds knows what the hell they’re doing. The last thing they need is a someone who’s never worked a job messing everything up.

Dean taps nervous fingers on his knee. Him and Sam have been parked in front of Free Will Enterprises, staking the joint out. Dean’s trying not to think about how John must have done this same thing—tried to get a feel for their security measures and what kind of visitors they got each day, saw how out of his league this place was, and then decided to go in anyway. For a fucking _ledger_. A list of names.

Dean doesn’t get it.

He pulls his phone out before he can talk himself out of it; tells himself maybe this is the time Dad will answer.

He feels Sam’s eyes on him as the line rings and rings, and forces his face to remain steady when it goes to voicemail. He knew it.

_“This is John’s other other phone. You know what to do.”_

Dean closes his eyes.

“Dad. It’s Dean. _Again_. We’re getting read to go after the ledger. Sam’s here too. But what the hell were you doing with this Free Will place? Can you _at least_ let us know you’re alive?” Dean sighs, heavy and world-weary. It’s not exactly the first time John’s been unreachable, but this time feels different. “We know you were talking to some guy named Frank. I don’t know why, but. Damn it. Just call me back. _Please_.”

He hangs up, helpless anger coursing through his body. He feels so useless, sitting next to a brother who doesn’t want to be there and trying to get in touch with a dad who doesn’t want to talk to him.

Dean’s phone chimes with a text and he fumbles his phone up, convinced it’s going to be Dad.

“It’s Charlie,” Dean manages to mumble around the sudden bitterness on his tongue. “She found a hitter and a thief that can make it here in a few hours.”

“Wow.” Sam seems impressed. “She’s pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah. The best.”

“Guess we should sketch out a plan, then?”

Dean eyes him. “Yeah, you probably should.”

_“Me?”_

“Jeez, I thought college was supposed to make you smart. You’re the one who said Dad’s plan sucked.”

“I know. But I thought…” Sam seems flustered. “I don’t know. I thought we could come up with a new plan together.”

Dean chokes on something that might be a laugh. “Look, me and Charlie aren’t great at big picture thinking. We can’t look at a blueprint and see all the possibilities. Hell, we were ready to try this with just the three of us, but _you_ immediately saw all the ways that could go wrong. You’ve always been better at thinking through plans. If this is gonna work, we need someone to run the show.”

“You want me to _run_ it?” Sam croaks. “Dean, I’m. I’m out of practice. I’m out of the life. What if I miss something?”

Dean claps him on the shoulder. “You won’t.”

He doesn’t have faith in a lot of things, but he’s always had faith in Sammy. He watches Sammy’ face change from freaked to determined.

“Okay. But this is a one-time thing.”

“Deal.”

Sam scrambles to pull a yellow legal pad out of his bag and flips to a fresh sheet. “I’ll need to see schematics,” he’s muttering, already pulling at his hair. “We should do this at night if we’re gonna go in and steal something physical. Less people around. Maybe tomorrow night?”

“No,” Dean disagrees. “You’re on a time limit, remember? We’re already losing almost a whole day sitting on our thumbs and waiting for back up—”

Sam makes a face. “Fine. We’ll do it tonight. _If_ we can get everyone on the same page by then. We can’t rush this, Dean.”

He nods in agreement and Sam starts scribbling notes, muttering to himself.

Dean watches, an ache in his chest. It reminds him, suddenly, of when they would be stuck at Bobby’s house. Bobby would say, “Sam, how would you run this job?” and Sam would scribble down notes like a madman; like the job was a puzzle he was trying to unravel. Bobby would look over his shoulder and make approving noises, or point out something that Sam didn’t think of.

Sam makes a noise and savagely scratches through something he’s written and it _almost_ feels like old times.

Almost.

***

They’re meeting the two new members of their team at a steakhouse.

“Do you have all of your meetings at restaurants now?” Sam asks.

“Why not? Public places hold everyone accountable. Plus, everyone likes good food.” Dean has too many memories of tagging along with John to smoky back rooms in bars—angry men that were ready to fight at the slightest provocation. Dean likes his way better. He ups his pace, struggling to keep up with Sam’s stupidly long stride. “Jesus, will you slow down, Sammy?”

“I don’t want to be late—”

He turns to give Dean an annoyed look, and almost runs straight into a kid texting on his phone. The kid is wearing a beanie and sunglasses—one of those too cool for school types that’s too busy on his phone to pay attention to the world around him. He twists out of the way just in time to avoid a collision, but fumbles his phone. It bounces on the sidewalk and lands at Sam’s feet.

Sam winces. “Sorry,” he says, scooping up the phone and handing it back to the kid.

“It’s alright,” the kid says. He turns and runs straight into Dean. He yelps, dropping his phone again.

Dean’s not as nice as Sam, so he doesn’t bend down to pick it up. “You need to watch where you’re going,” Dean says instead, already squeezing past him to catch up with Sam. Sam looks like he has thoughts about Dean’s people skills, but Dean ignores him—taking the chance to speed ahead of him on the sidewalk and leave Sam scrambling to catch up.

Dean makes it into the steakhouse first, but only because Sammy was too proud to run the last few feet. Dean has no shame, so he opens the door with an accomplished smile and beelines it for the hostess, Sam muttering darkly behind him about _cheating_.

“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks.

“Yep. It’s under Bradbury,” Dean says, though he doesn’t know why Charlie even bothers. Dean always likes the challenge of talking his way into a table. A sleepy little place like this? It would’ve been a cakewalk.

They follow the hostess to a table tucked away in a secluded little corner. Charlie’s chatting with someone across the table who has his back to Dean.

It doesn’t matter.

Dean can tell who it is just from the tan coat, the messy brown hair, and the set of his broad shoulders. It’s exactly the same outfit he was wearing last time Dean saw him.

Dean grinds to a halt. He can’t even bring himself to smile at the hostess as she walks away.

No way. _No fucking way_.

Charlie’s grinning up at them, oblivious to Dean’s inner turmoil. “Hey guys! This is Castiel. He’s the Hitter who’s helping us out. Castiel, this is Sam and Dean.”

Castiel turns in his seat to greet them. Sam’s already heading forward, hand outstretched, but Dean isn’t about to act civil. His jaw is clenched, arms crossed in front of him. He’s sure he’s glaring if the increasingly alarmed look on Charlie’s face is any indication.

Castiel has the same striking blue eyes he remembers. They study Dean’s face impassively as he shakes Sam’s hand.

“Hello Dean,” he finally says. “Your nose seems to have healed nicely.”

Dean bares his teeth at him in a facsimile of a smile. “No thanks to you.”

Rather than look embarrassed as Dean had hoped, Castiel looks almost amused. “I did tell you it was nothing personal,” Castiel says. His voice is placid and unemotional, but his eyes have a hint of a laugh in them. It makes Dean’s cheeks flare with anger.

He doesn’t like to think about that job in Colorado. After that job, Dean swore he was never going to work with Castiel again.

“Do you two know each other?” Sam asks, looking between them.

“Unfortunately,” Dean says shortly. There’s no way this is happening. There has to be another hitter that can help.

“Hello!” a voice chirps behind them. Dean tears his glare away from Cas, spinning to find the human equivalent of a puppy. Seriously: floppy hair, eager smile, wide eyes—the whole nine yards.

“Can we help you?” he asks.

“Jack!” Charlie says, perking up. “Thanks for coming!”

“Wait— _what_?” Dean gives Charlie an incredulous look. “Please tell me this isn’t the thief.”

 _Jack_ looks like he’s seventeen and about 90 pounds wet. He’s in a t-shirt and beat-up sneakers, for crying out loud.

“Yes, I’m the thief,” Jack says, coming forward with a friendly hand outstretched. Dean shrinks back behind Sam. How can a job go so wrong before it ever even starts?

“Uh, no offense,” he says. “I don’t trust thieves.”

“Dean!” Charlie snaps, annoyed.

“Oh,” Jack says. Absurdly, he looks crestfallen. “That’s okay. I understand.”

“Hello, Jack,” Castiel says, leaning away from the table so he can be seen. “It’s nice to see you again.”

As abruptly as Jack’s face had fallen, it lights up again. “Castiel! I was praying we would get to work together again!”

Dean barks out a loud, disbelieving, “ _Ha!_ ” Anyone who would want to work with Castiel again, had obviously never met the _real_ Castiel.

Castiel’s grin seamlessly morphs into a glare. Dean ignores it.

“So, you’ve stolen things before?” Sam asks, sounding relieved. Dean doesn’t blame him. Kid looks like he’s never done anything bad in his life. “This isn’t your first job?”

“No,” Jack says. He’s still smiling. Doesn’t his face get tired of that?

“Jack is very good at his job,” Castiel puts in.

Sam nods, but Dean throws up his hands. “And we’re supposed to just trust _your_ word?” he asks. He turns back to Jack. “What’s the last thing you stole, kid?”

He blinks. “Oh. I stole your wallets.”

“What?” Dean laughs. He looks uncertainly at Sam. That’s impossible. Jack didn’t come anywhere near them yet. But Jack is digging into his pockets and pulling out two familiar wallets. He offers them out to Sam and Dean. “ _What_?”

Sam snaps his fingers. “The kid on the street that bumped into us. That was _you_. Of course.”

Jack grins.

Dean snatches his wallet back bad-temperedly. “Fucking thieves, man,” he grumbles. He sits down in the farthest seat from Castiel, which unfortunately also happens to be the one across from him. Dean hides his face in the menu so he doesn’t have to look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, as everyone gets settled around the table. “Most people don’t take me seriously unless I steal something from them.”

“Yeah,” Sam laughs. “Point made. Seriously. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Someone kicks Dean. He looks over to Charlie giving him a look. A _What the hell is wrong with you?_ Look.

Dean jerks his head at Castiel.

Charlie frowns.

“So,” Sam turns to Castiel now. “How do you and Dean know each other?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says, unable to help himself from poking the bear. “How _do_ we know each other?”

Cas looks up toward the ceiling, like the cheap chandeliers are going to give him answers or something. “I once deceived and betrayed your brother,” he tells Sam.

Stunned silence reigns.

Oh yeah. This is gonna be fun.


	4. The Job

Charlie is the first one to recover from Castiel’s bombshell.

“Uh, okay,” she squeaks, sending nervous glances between them. “Obviously there’s some history here. But maybe we can put it aside for the sake of the job?”

“I won’t have a problem putting aside our differences,” Cas says. There’s an _implication_ there. That Dean can’t be professional. It makes him bristle.

“Just don’t ask me to get you out of any tight spots,” he says. “Last time I helped you out, it didn’t end too well for me.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I didn’t _need_ your help. I would’ve retrieved that necklace just fine if you hadn’t triggered the alarm—”

“ _Me_? You just _had_ to chase after me like a maniac!”

“Tell me, Dean,” Cas says, leaning forward. He drops his voice low; taunting. “Were you able to flirt your way into a new set of tires?”

“Oh, you mean after you _slashed_ them?”

“Be glad I didn’t do more.”

Dean sees red. The fact that he had fucked with Baby in the first place was bad enough, but now he’s threatening to do more? “You son of a—” Dean aims a kick at where Castiel’s shins should be, but he hits only air. Somehow Castiel has sensed it coming with his freaky spidey senses and moved his legs out of the way. Suddenly both of his ankles close around Dean’s like a vise. Dean flails around, trying to get free.

“Don’t bother,” he tells Dean, sounding bored. “My training far exceeds whatever bar brawling you’ve done.”

“You—"

“ _Guys!_ ” Sam barks.

Castiel abruptly releases Dean’s foot, breaking their eye contact. Dean sits back in his chair, breathing heavily. “Sorry,” he grits out, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. He’s fine. Or he _should_ be. It’s not the craziest thing in the world to get screwed over on a job. Dean’s sure it’s happened to loads of people. That’s the thing about being in this business. The only people you can trust are your family, and your crew—too bad Dean doesn’t have either.

“Is this gonna be a problem?” Sam asks bluntly.

“No,” Dean mutters mutinously.

He sees Castiel shake his head jerkily in his peripherals.

“Okay, so…so both of you, just stow your crap. We can’t afford any in-fighting. If all goes to plan, we’ll finish the job tonight and you’ll never have to see each other again.”

Dean shrugs, a fake smile on his face. “Works for me. One night wonders are basically my whole thing.”

Cas doesn’t give any response. It’s like he’s decided to deal with Dean by turning into a statue and pretending he doesn’t exist. Whatever. Dean can work with that. It’s better than actually having to _talk_ to the guy.

There’s another moment of silence; broken only by Charlie nervously tapping her fingers on the table.

Jack raises his hand. Jesus Christ.

“Uh…yes?” Sam asks awkwardly. “Do you have a question, Jack?”

“Yes. What _is_ the job? Charlie didn’t give me much information.”

Sam sits up a little straighter, and pulls out the stupid legal pad he’s been writing on all day. Somehow a plan has emerged from the scribbles and scratch-outs and doodles. “We need to steal a ledger.”

“From who?”

“A private security company. Free Will Enterprises.”

Cas jerks, eyes wide. “Sam, they are…not good people.”

Sam leans forward, a flare of excitement in his eye. Dean wonders if he even realizes it’s there. “You know them?”

“Yes.” Castiel doesn’t offer any other information besides: “This could be very dangerous.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “So, what are you saying? You’re backing out?”

“No.” Castiel scowls at him. “I said I would help, so I’ll help. But we need to be careful. _Very_ careful.”

***

Four hours later, Dean sidles up to the front door of Free Will. It’s dark inside, but he bangs on the door until a suspicious looking guard comes out to the lobby and stalks over to the front door.

“What?” he snaps through the glass.

“Sorry to bother you,” Dean calls, smiling as winningly as he can. “Do you know if that Chevy pick-up in the parking lot belongs to someone here?”

Dean already knows it belongs to this guy. His name is Reggie Baker and he seems like kind of douchebag based on what Charlie dug up, so Dean doesn’t feel too guilty using the man’s love of his truck against him.

Reggie’s eyes sharpen. More concerned than suspicious now.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “I was just out for a jog and I saw some guys bashing the windows in.”

_“What?”_

“Yeah, they got the tires man. I chased ‘em off, but they’d already put it on blocks—if you know who owns it, they should probably take a look—”

Reggie Baker is already fumbling with the door, cursing as he unlocks it and exits the building. He freezes before he can get too far, sending a suspicious look at Dean and pointedly locking the door behind him again before he bustles away.

Dean sighs and leans against the building to wait. There’s a security camera trained right on the door, but Dean isn’t worried. If Charlie did her job right, that camera will just be showing looped footage for the next 5 minutes. And Charlie always does her job right. The person Dean’s worried about is Cas. This next part all depends on him.

_“The quickest way to get inside is to run a Stormtrooper’s Bluff,” Sam had said over dinner. “With any luck, we’ll be out of there before they even realize what happened.”_

_“What’s a Stormtrooper’s Bluff?” Jack asked, excited._

_Sam’s eyes flicked over to Cas. “This is where you come in.”_

_“I’m familiar with the con,” Cas said stiffly. Of course he was. Dean was the idiot who taught it to him._

Dean can picture how it’s supposed to go. Reggie will be jogging toward his truck, not even paying attention to the bushes he’s passing. Castiel’s hand will shoot out and curl around Reggie’s arm; he’ll yank him down and knock him out before Reggie can even shout. Then Castiel will methodically dress in his uniform, grab his keys, and—

“ _I’m heading to Dean_ ,” Cas says over the comm in his ear.

Dean’s eyes widen. It seems impossibly fast. It’s barely been a minute. _Of course_ Cas managed a silent takedown in the amount of time it takes Dean to decide on which drink he wants to order at a bar. If Dean hadn’t seen him in action before—brutal and efficient—he wouldn’t believe it.

“ _Damn, Castiel, you’re_ good,” Charlie cheers.

Cas is already stalking up the front walkway, dressed in Reggie Baker’s uniform. His face doesn’t twitch at Charlie’s compliment. He unlocks the door without even looking at Dean, holding the door open for him to slip inside. Apparently, they’re going to try and do this job without acknowledging each other. Fine with Dean.

The lobby feels menacing and cold. Maybe Cas had a point being worried about breaking in here. The furniture is a combination of metal and black leather; dark walls branch off into shadowy hallways where assassins for hire probably lurk. “Charlie,” Dean murmurs, no louder than a breath. “Where am I going?”

“ _Do you have Reggie’s key card?_ ” she asks.

Castiel holds it out to him wordlessly. “Yeah.”

“ _Okay, through the hallway on your left…”_

Dean follows her directions, Cas stepping lightly behind him just in case they run into any trouble. They don’t. Dean scans the keycard and goes through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, leaving Cas in the hall. It’s a little staff locker room with another exit on the far wall. He strides across and opens the door just wide enough for Jack to slip in.

“I’m in,” Jack says, practically vibrating with excitement. Ugh. 

“ _Okay_ ,” he hears Sam say. He sounds tense. Probably expecting everything to go to shit. Dean can relate. It almost feels too easy. Who would’ve thought having a full crew would make things run so smoothly? “ _Castiel, can you keep tabs on the security room? We need to make sure no one realizes Reggie is missing and raises an alarm.”_

“ _Copy_ ,” Cas says, completely seriously. Dean almost snorts.

Instead, he turns his attention to the lockers, tugging on doors until he finds one that swings open. “Dammit,” he curses. “No uniform.”

“I’ve got some over here,” Jack says softly.

Dean turns to see every locker on the opposite wall hanging open. He gapes at Jack. “What the—how the hell’d you do that so fast?”

Jack shrugs and gives him a sly smile. Dean shudders. _Thieves_. He tosses Dean a janitor’s uniform and they hurriedly change into them, Dean checking his watch to make sure they’re still running on time. Jack rummages through all the open lockers like a raccoon, only stopping when Dean growls: “Jack, _come on_.”

He straightens up and heads over to Dean apologetically. Dean takes hold of a random mop bucket, and starts towards the door. “You aren’t gonna freak out on me, are you?”

Jack smiles. “Don’t worry. I don’t freak out.”

“Whatever.” Charlie knows some _weird_ people. Dean gestures for Jack to follow and wheels the bucket out the door.

_“The only way to get up to the sixth floor is on the elevator,” Charlie had said. “All the stairwells lock down at night.”_

_“And the guards will be probably be patrolling around the elevator, so you’ll need to blend in.” Sam raised a brow. “You can blend, right?”_

Oh yeah, Dean can blend. And it’s a good thing too, because Jack _can’t_. He looks like a kid in a Halloween costume. While they’re waiting for the elevator, a guard strolls around the corner. He stops in surprise when he sees them, but relaxes minutely as his eyes take in the cleaning cart and their uniforms. Dean does not want this guy taking a closer look at Jack. It’s safer to involve him in conversation. People have a hard time thinking when they’re talking.

“Howdy,” Dean says, waving a hand hello. “Workin’ hard or hardly working?”

The guard snorts at that, strolling closer to lean on the wall behind them. “Always working, man. You know how it is.”

“Sure do.” Dean twists the conversation just a little bit. “You catch the game last night?”

Sports are usually a good bet, especially with these tough, alpha-male looking types. Lots of emotions are tied up in the memories, which always make people think of _that_ instead of whether or not Dean is who he says he is. He keeps it vague; lets the guy assign whatever meaning he wants to. Sure enough, he groans, face collapsing. “Don’t remind me. Jesus, when are they gonna fire Linetti?”

“You ask me, they should have done it a long time ago.” He gestures to the elevator as it dings. “Well. Duty calls.”

The guard nods a goodbye and wanders away, mind still caught on whoever the fuck Linetti is. With any luck, they’ll be long gone before his mind circles back to Dean and Jack.

Jack lets out a _whoosh_ of breath when the elevator starts going up. “That was so cool!” he says, eyes shining.

Someone snorts in derision in the earbud. Castiel. “ _I’d call it reckless_ ,” he says. _“You shouldn’t start conversations with these guards, Dean.”_

“It’s my job to start conversations,” Dean mutters back. “That’s what I do.”

“Can you teach me how to do it?” Jack asks. At least someone appreciates him.

Dean frowns. “Maybe one day, kid.”

Dean has doubts he’ll ever see Jack after tonight, but Jack is appeased by his answer and quiets down. In his earbud, Charlie directs them to a door with a key card reader. Dean swipes Reggie’s keycard, but the reader beeps red. The door stays locked.

“Uh…”

Dean tries again. No deal.

“The card’s not working. How long until a guard comes this way?”

“ _Dean, stop,”_ Charlie suddenly says, breathless. Dean pauses, card poised to try another swipe. “ _If you swipe an unauthorized card too many times it’ll set off an alarm. What color is Reggie’s card?”_

“Yellow.”

“ _Frack. We need a red key card for the records room. Dammit_.”

“ _Can you override it from here?_ ” Sam asks. He sounds like he’s on the verge of panicking. Dean wills him to stay cool.

_“No. I’d need to be plugged in to the system’s network.”_

“Will this one work?” Jack says innocently. He holds out a red key card, snagged from the guard who stopped to chat them up by the elevator. Dean didn’t even _see_ him take it.

“Oh, _sweet_ ,” Dean says. Maybe this kid’s alright. He plucks it from Jack’s hand and swipes it, heart pounding. The reader beeps green and Dean swings the door open, pushing the cleaning cart inside the room. Jack hops out when the door swings shut. “We’re in. Nice thinking, Jack.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sam echoes. “ _Really nice, Jack_.”

Jack beams. “Stealing things makes me happy.”

“Okay, Klepto,” Dean laughs. “Let’s focus on stealing what matters.” He surveys the room, trying not to feel daunted by the task at hand. There’s about a million filing cabinets in here, but— “Dad said the ledger was in a safe.”

“Here,” Jack says. Dean turns to find him caressing a small black wall safe. There’s a keypad on it.

“ _The code should be 08973_ ,” Sam says. 

Jack punches the code in with nimble fingers, and the door swings open.

“This feels too easy,” Dean says nervously.

“ _Dean_ ,” Charlie hisses in exasperation. “ _Don’t_ —”

“There’s another safe,” Jack says.

_“—jinx it. Great. Too late.”_

“Fuck,” Dean mutters. “ _Damn_ _it_. Who puts a safe inside another safe?”

“Don’t worry,” Jack says, grinning. The safe has a spinny wheel instead of a keypad. “I can crack it. Give me five minutes.”

Suddenly there’s a new, fainter voice on the comms. “ _Hey_ ,” Dean hears. It has to be someone talking to Cas in the camera room. “ _Who the hell are you? Where’s Reggie?”_

Dean can practically _hear_ Cas freezing up.

“Cas, tell him you’re new,” Dean says automatically.

 _“I’m new,”_ Cas repeats like a robot. Dean winces.

“Tell him Reggie’s training you.”

_“Reggie’s, uh…”_

“Cas!” Dean snaps. 

A muffled grunt and the sounds of punches hitting filter through the comms.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean swears. It’s time to go, but he doesn’t want to leave without the ledger. Not when they’re so close. “Jack: your five minutes just turned into _one_ minute.”

Jack has his eyes closed and his ear to the safe door. A thumbs up is the only response Dean gets. He shuffles nervously on his feet. Sam and Charlie are barely breathing in the comms.

Suddenly the card reader beeps and the door swings open. Dean jumps about a mile and grabs the mop like a weapon, but it’s just Castiel—hair windswept and face looking more aggravated than normal. “We need to leave,” he says.

“Not yet,” Dean tells him. Cas glares at him.

“Almost got it,” Jack breathes.

A knock raps on the door. _Fuck_.

“Hey, someone in there?” a gruff voice calls.

“Yeah,” Dean shouts through the door, doing his best to sound calm. “Cleaning crew!”

“Open up,” the guard says. “I need to see your ID.”

Dean glances at Castiel and he nods, moving into position behind the door as Dean swings it open.

“Hey, sorry,” he grins, patting down his pockets. “Must have left my ID downstairs. Let me just grab my mop—”

Dean backs up and the guard takes a threatening step toward him. “How’d you get in here without your card?”

Castiel doesn’t wait for Dean to answer. He slams the door forward, knocking into the guy’s head with a crack. The guard staggers backward, stumbling back out into the hallway and Cas follows him, seizing his shirt and dragging him back into the records room. Dean slams the door shut behind them. The guard’s fumbling for something at his belt—a _gun_ , Dean realizes with a sense of distant horror. Cas rolls his eyes and yanks his hand away, twisting it at an odd angle and snapping a bone or two. The guard screams as Dean flinches away in disgust.

Cas punches him once and he slumps back to the floor, unconscious.

He straightens back up, almost looking _bored_ —like he was buying a jug of milk, not beating the shit out of the guy. He hasn’t even broken into a sweat. The guard’s walkie talkie crackles to life. “Delta come in. What’s your position?”

Castiel’s nostrils flare. “We need to leave,” he says again.

“Jack’s almost done,” Dean huffs.

“ _Now_ ,” Cas says. He catches Dean’s arm when Dean tries to go back towards Jack. Dean tries to shake him off, but Cas’ fingers bite into his muscle painfully.

“Let go of me,” he snarls.

 _“Dean, go,”_ Sam says. “ _Just leave it. It’s not worth it.”_

“I got it,” Jack says. The safe door is hanging open behind him and Jack is holding a brown ledger aloft. It looks old and beat up. Dean feels a wave of relief rush through him. They did it. They actually—

“Dean,” Castiel says sharply.

“Okay, okay! We’re leaving.”

They head as fast as possible down the hallway to the elevator bay. It feels like it takes forever for the elevator to show up, and then another eternity to take them down to the ground floor. When the elevator doors open, Dean’s heart drops. They’re face to face with another guard. The guard’s hand immediately goes for his gun, but Cas is faster.

He sweeps forward and catches the guard’s hand as he brings the gun up, forcing it up towards the ceiling. Dean ushers Jack ahead of him, back toward the staff entrance. “Go, go—”

Behind them, Cas pushes the guard back, slamming him into the wall. He bangs his wrist against the wall once, twice, three times—until the guard grunts in pain and the gun tumbles to the floor. Dean winces, half expecting the commotion to attract another guard. He swipes one of the stolen key cards and Jack darts into the locker room. Cas kicks the gun away without looking, effortlessly twisting the guard around into a chokehold. The guard gasps for air, fingers scrabbling at Cas’ sleeve. Castiel’s eyes catch on Dean, hovering at the door and watching nervously.

“Dean, go,” he snaps, eyes flashing in annoyance. “I’ve got this.”

Dean hesitates for one more second. “Don’t kill that guy,” he snaps in warning before he pushes his way into the locker room.

“Charlie, I hope you guys are ready for us,” Dean says. “We’re coming out hot!”

“Ready and waiting,” she chirps, though Dean can hear the underlying nervousness in her tone.

Jack and Dean burst out of the staff exit—Jack almost tripping on the uneven pathway. Dean grabs him by the arm and yanks him upright as they careen towards the parking lot. Charlie’s yellow van is idling in wait, the back doors hanging open. Dean and Jack jump in, panting for breath.

“Where’s Castiel?” Sam asks worriedly, peering out of the back of the van.

On cue, Cas comes running out of the building. Behind him, an alarm starts blaring. He runs faster. He jumps lightly into the back of the van and pulls the doors shut behind him. At the sound of the doors shutting, Charlie punches the gas and peels away, tires squealing.

Charlie’s been Dean’s getaway driver many times before, so he knows that as soon as those back doors shut, you better get low and hold on for dear life. Cas, of course, doesn’t know this—so when Charlie presses her foot down, his eyes blow wide and he stumbles back and forth for a few seconds before tumbling down in a graceless heap.

Dean can’t help it. He laughs.

It’s the most inelegant thing Dean’s ever seen the guy do, and that’s including the-job-that-must-not-be-named. Guy can beat up a guard like it’s choreographed, but Charlie’s driving is the thing that does him in.

Dean’s laugh is contagious and soon Jack and Sam are laughing too. Castiel’s face, at first indignant, slowly melts into a grudging smile of his own.

“We made it, bitches!” Charlie whoops from the driver’s seat.

Dean leans back against the side of the van in relief. _They made it._

His eyes catch on Castiel’s for a just a moment. He might hate the guy, but there’s no denying he’s a fucking awesome hitter. Dean gives him a quick nod of thanks.

Cas nods back.

Then they look away from each other and spend the rest of the ride in silence.


	5. Sam

Charlie screeches to a halt in a hotel parking lot. Sam doesn’t even question where they are, too intent on not puking from the (frankly terrifying) way Charlie had been taking corners.

“This is where me and Dean are bunking,” Charlie says. “I already got you guys some rooms, but you’re welcome to crash with us. It’ll be like a sleepover!”

“A sleepover?” Jack repeats. He sounds excited, but then he always sounds excited. “I’ve never had a sleepover before.”

Sam stumbles out of the passenger seat, taking sweet, blessed breaths of fresh air. In the car, Charlie’s squawking: “What do you _mean_ you’ve never had a sleepover?” Sam tunes her out; he’s fighting the urge to drop and kiss the pavement. Dean laughs at him, climbing out of the back of the van.

“Feeling a little green there, Sammy?”

“Shut up,” Sam mutters. He takes in his surroundings for the first time. Woah. “You and Charlie are staying _here_?”

“Yeah, so?” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Sam quirks an eyebrow. “Nothing, it’s just. It’s pretty fancy. Not exactly your style, right?”

Dean makes a face. “Oh, come on. You think I liked those shitty motel rooms we were always stuck in? I still have PTSD from that place that had the bed bugs.”

Sam stares at Dean, unsettled. Dean had always seemed excited to settle in to a new motel room—to test out the water pressure and search through the drawers for forgotten items. Too late, Sam realizes that was probably for his benefit. That Dean was trying to make it seem fun for his little brother, even when it was royally fucked up.

“Come on, you two,” Charlie calls. “Let’s head up to the room. I’m _dying_ to know what we risked our butts for.”

That sobers up Sam a little bit. They _did_ risk their butts. That job could have gone really bad, really fast. Sam really hopes whatever in the ledger is worth it.

Charlie leads their motley troop through a side door so they don’t attract any attention from the overnight receptionist. Charlie and Dean’s room is some kind of suite and is definitely several huge steps up from what they got used to as kids. There’s a couch and a coffee table right past the doorway, and a little kitchen area with a Keurig. Two pillow-soft beds call invitingly from the middle of the room and the bathroom is all soft towels and creamy tile and—Sam blinks. “Is that a jacuzzi?”

Charlie snorts. “Don’t look at me. That is all your brother, dude.”

Dean ignores them, though the back of his neck is flushed red. “I like the bubbles,” he mutters.

Jack is flitting around, touching everything and using various synonyms for the word cool, but Castiel is just standing inside the door, like he’s a wind-up toy or something. Sam gives him a tentative smile. “You want to sit down? Get comfy?”

Castiel sits, but he doesn’t look comfy. He’s perched on the edge of the couch, like he might get up and leave at any minute. Sam gives up on him and turns instead to Jack, who hands over the ledger obediently.

“Alright,” he sighs. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

“I’m gonna call Dad,” Dean says. “Let him know we got it.”

Sam shrugs and sits on the edge of a bed, opening the book. Charlie and Jack crowd in close behind him, peering over his shoulder. Castiel stays on the couch, unmoving.

It’s an old book. Full up with handwritten names and dates. It goes back to the seventies. “Jesus. How long have these guys been operating?”

“Hey, Dad, it’s me,” Dean says, from the other side of the room. He sounds tired and more than a little annoyed. Sam tries not to listen in. “We got your ledger. If you even still want it. Call me back, I guess.”

Sam’s still flipping through the pages. Some are yellowed with age. “This is nothing. Just a list of names and nonsense notes. Listen to this: 9/8/1970. Lola Parker. HP TX GSW 215. What the hell does that mean?”

“Lola Parker paid them to shoot someone in Texas and make it look like a carjacking gone wrong,” Castiel says from his spot on the couch.

Everyone turns to Cas, mouths agape. Sam lets the ledger sag in his hands, eyeing Cas warily. “What?”

“HP would be the target’s initials," he explains awkwardly. "Probably related to Lola based on the last name. Killed in Texas by a GSW, or a gunshot wound. 215 is code for a carjacking.”

“Sure,” Dean says, face screwed up in suspicion. “Next you’re gonna tell me Mrs. White killed him with a revolver in the study.”

“No. If it was made to look like a carjacking, it wouldn’t have been in a study—”

“ _Ugh_. Shut up. You want to tell us how you know so much about Free Will Enterprises?”

Cas squints. “Not really.”

“What about this one, Cas?” Charlie asks, still peering over Sam's shoulder. “6/5/71. Paul Richardson. LM OH 480.”

“LM was killed by a hit and run in Ohio.”

“Okay,” Sam says. He’s trying not to be freaked out by Castiel, but the guy’s making it really hard. “ _Assuming_ you’re right, why would dad want this? A list of people that Free Will has been paid to kill? Why would he care?”

“No way,” Dean suddenly says. His face is going all pale and milky. “No _fucking_ way.”

“Dude,” Sam says. “You okay?”

Dean ignores him, yanking the ledger out of Sam’s hand and stumbling back to sit on the other bed. He thumbs feverishly through the pages until he finally stops, sucking in a heaving breath.

“Dean,” Charlie says. “You’re freaking us out.”

“Got another one for you, Cas,” Dean says. “11/2/83. Azazel Amarojo. MW KS 451.”

Sam starts like he’s been slapped. _11/2/83._

“ _No_ ,” he says. Like that will make it less true.

Dean won’t look at him. But Sam knows what he’s thinking. And it’s not possible. It’s not—

Perhaps sensing the emotions in the room, Castiel is a little bit hesitant to answer this time. “MW was killed in Kansas on November 2nd,” he starts. The date makes Sam’s heart clench. _Fuck_. Castiel’s eyes flick back and forth between Dean and Sam for a moment before he finishes: “451 means arson. Though it was probably made to look like an accidental fire.”

“Goddammit,” Dean chokes out, burying his face in his hands. “God _dammit_.”

“MW,” Charlie repeats in a hushed voice. “Like…Mary Winchester?”

Jack gasps and Cas’s eyes grow wide, flicking back over to Dean.

“No,” Sam says. “No, our mom wasn’t murdered.”

“It’s in the ledger, Sam!” Dean shouts, hurling the book halfway across the room in a fit of sudden anger.

“Well, who the hell is Azazel?” Sam snaps. “Why would he have any reason to want Mom dead?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know. Fuck, I need some air.”

Charlie makes an abortive move towards him. “Dean, wait—”

He stalks out of the room and slams the door behind him.

“Well,” Castiel says into the tense silence. “Now what?”

Sam can’t help the bitter laugh that bursts out of him. _Now what?_

It’s a question that’s plagued him for most of his life.

It was there every time John left them in a motel room. It was there when he got to Stanford and was really, actually alone for the first time in his life. And it’s here now—now that his mom might have been murdered. _Now what?_

He picks up the ledger, flipping back to the proper page and tracing the entry with his finger. _MW KS 451._ It looks so innocuous. It’s hard to believe that tiny entry ruined their family. _Mary Winchester killed in Kansas by a house fire._ He drags his eyes to the start of the entry. To the client’s name.

_Azazel Amarojo._

Ostensibly, he’s the man who paid to kill their mother, but the name means nothing to Sam. He was too young; doesn’t remember enough to be any real help. And with Dad out of pocket, there’s only one other person Sam can think of that might know.

“Now,” he finally sighs, “We call my Uncle Bobby.”


	6. Dean

Dean ducks into the first bar he sees, which means it’s a real hole in the wall. Dingy counters, smoky air, loud music. Dean has a love-hate relationship with these places.

Right now, he’s erring on the side of love—mostly because of how good the bartender’s taking care of him. Dean’s been wallowing away his sorrows with a bottle of Jack and is on his way to well and truly numb—just the way he likes it.

Well. _Liked_ it.

Charlie would kill him if she could see him now.

Whatever. His mom was probably murdered and his dad is missing. Dean’s entitled to a few poor decisions.

It’s too late to be getting this drunk—or too early depending on how you think of it. Dean hasn’t slept in too long. His eyes are itching and dry, but he forces them to stay open. He can’t sleep now. Not if he doesn’t want nightmares of flames and ash. A memory resurfaces; he can practically hear it—

_“I’m gonna find Azazel, and I’m gonna murder that son of a bitch,” John ranted at Bobby. Dean was hiding at the top of the stairs, listening hard._

_“Don’t be an idiot, John,” Bobby snapped. “You got two boys to take care of now.”_

And then later, Dean had asked: _“Dad, who’s Azazel?”_ and John had almost driven off the road—

The bartender sways back over to him. She’s got a swirling tattoo on her arm and short dark hair. She sets another round in front of him. “Got yourself an admirer,” she says, motioning over to the other end of the bar.

 _Sweet_. Dean lifts his glass up in thanks, only to falter when he sees Castiel nod back at him. What in the fuck—

He slams the glass down and marches over to Cas, only a little bit more unsteady than he thought he would be. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Having a drink,” Castiel says, annoyingly placid.

“Did you follow me here?”

“Follow you?” he repeats, sounding surprised. “No. I wanted a drink, so I came to a bar.”

“And you just _happened_ to pick the same bar I was at?”

“It would appear so. I guess you could call it fate.”

Dean pauses, squinting at Castiel. “I don’t believe in fate.”

Castiel smiles, a barely there thing. “Neither do I.”

Dean stares at him for another moment longer, trying to figure out what his game is before he abruptly gives up. He collapses into the chair next to him, muttering under his breath. Whatever. Drinking with someone he hates is only marginally better than drinking alone, but he has to take his wins where they come.

He eyes the drink he left at his old seat mournfully and Cas sighs, gesturing for the waitress to bring Dean another shot.

“Can’t believe my dad never told us,” Dean groans, after he knocks it back. It burns warm in his chest. “What an asshole.”

Castiel frowns. “Maybe he didn’t know how to tell you,” Cas offers. “Or maybe he was protecting you. I’ve heard fathers do that sometimes.”

The way he says it, wryly—like it’s something he’s never experienced—makes Dean huff out a humorless laugh. “Maybe. Doesn’t sound like my dad.”

Cas hums. “Mine either.”

The room spins dizzily around Dean’s head. “So you think I’m right?” he asks. He hates how young he sounds. He clears his throat and roughs up his voice a little. “You think my mom was— _killed_ by this Azazel guy?”

Castiel gives him a side-long glance, like he doesn’t know how much he should say.

“You can tell me,” Dean snorts. “I’m not gonna fall apart.”

“Yes, I do. Azazel might not have set the fire himself, but he certainly paid someone else to,” Castiel says. His fingers flex around his empty glass. “Those people at Free Will—the mercenaries, or assassins, or whatever you want to call them—they’re dangerous, Dean. Soulless. They wouldn’t even blink at setting fire to a house with children in it.”

They fall silent as the bartender comes back by, replacing their empty glasses with full ones.

Dean holds up his glass. “Fuck those dickbags, man.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees solemnly. There’s a terrible look in his eyes as he clinks his glass against Dean’s. “Fuck those—those _assbutts_.”

He looks so serious as he says it. Dean can’t help the snort that erupts out of him. It feels nice to feel something that isn’t anger or sadness or numbness. “Yeah, fuck all the assbutts,” he leers, grin turning into something genuine when an embarrassed flush appears on Castiel’s cheeks.

“You know what I meant.”

“No.” Dean rests his chin on his fist, looking at Cas expectantly. “Please, explain to me _exactly_ how you would fuck the assbutts. I want details.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I guess I would fuck them slowly,” he says, feigning casualness. He looks pointedly at Dean. “Slowly and thoroughly. What about you, Dean?”

Dean swallows nervously. “Yeah, yeah, me too, yep,” he babbles. He tries to throw back his drink only to find it’s already empty again. He stares at it, betrayed.

Next to him, Cas laughs.

It’s an unfamiliar thing, and Dean turns to him in amazement, eyes catching on the way his nose wrinkles up.

“Your face was very funny,” Cas explains, still smiling.

“Yeah, well, _your_ face is funny,” Dean mutters.

Cas laughs again, but it turns into a sad-sounding sigh. “I’m sorry I betrayed your trust the last time we met. I think we could have been good friends, Dean.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face, the warmth in his gut turning a little sour. For a minute he’d been enjoying talking to Cas. Dude was probably right. If they’d met each other for the first time on this job, things would have been different. Dean’s eyes catch on Castiel’s fingers—long and strong and loosely clasped around his glass. Yeah. Things probably would’ve been _way_ different.

Dean chews on his lip for a minute, thinking. He doesn’t want to have John Winchester’s life. Doesn’t want to be the lonely bastard that drinks alone. Dean has exactly one friend. He can’t afford to turn any potential ones away.

He holds out a hand to Cas.

Cas stares at it like it might explode. “What are you doing?”

“I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean says, his best smile stretched across his face. He looks at Cas expectantly. “And you are…?”

“Castiel,” Cas says flatly. “You know that.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Dean mutters, biting back the laugh. He grabs Cas’ hand and forces it into his own. Cas lets him do it, even though he could probably break Dean’s wrist with his pinky finger or something. He shakes Cas’ hand pointedly. “Nice to meet you, Cas. Wanna be friends?”

A tiny, sad smile spreads across his face. He pulls his hand away. “Dean, you can’t just decide to start over.”

“Why not?” Dean frowns down at his glass, trying to ignore the sting of rejection. He should’ve known.

“Because that’s not how it works.”

“Says who? There are no rules to friendship, Cas. If I want to start over, and _you_ want to start over—then we should just start over.”

“You would do that?” Castiel asks, sounding confused. He’s staring at Dean like he’s never seen anyone like him before. Huh. Maybe Cas could use a friend too.

“Sure.” He holds up a finger. “On one condition.”

“You just said there were no rules to friendship.”

“There’s _one_ rule to friendship,” Dean amends. He tries not to hold his breath while Cas stares at him, considering.

“Alright,” he finally says. “What is it?”

“If you _ever_ mess with Baby again, all bets are off.”

Cas nods solemnly. “I accept your terms.”

“Okay then.” Dean turns to slaps the counter, letting the good feelings chase away the bad. “Bartender! Another round for me and my friend here!”


	7. Dean

Dean doesn’t remember how he gets back to the hotel, but he knows he must have because he’s sprawled face down on his bed. He doesn’t remember settling the tab, or how many drinks they ended up tossing back; he doesn’t even know where Cas ended up sleeping. When Dean wakes up in the morning, he only knows three things: he has a throbbing headache, a horrific taste in his mouth, and Bobby Singer is yelling at him.

“—sleeping til all hours of the day,” Bobby rants, yanking the curtains open so light streams into the room. Dean shuts his eyes, blinded. Is he hallucinating? “What kind of idjit works a job hungover? If my flight home wasn’t already booked, I’d be leavin’ for South Dakota _today_ —”

“Bobby?” Dean rasps. He forces himself up, ignoring the way his stomach rolls.

“Oh! Sleeping Beauty’s awake! I was gettin’ scared I’d have to kiss ya.”

“What are you doing here?” Dean croaks. Charlie’s bed is empty next to his.

“Sam called me. Told me what was going on. You want to explain why _you_ didn’t pick up the phone three days ago?”

Dean hunches down. He feels too sick to deal with this right now, which is probably why he just tells the truth. “I know you and Dad don’t talk anymore. Figured you wouldn’t want to hear about the newest shitstorm he got stuck in.”

Bobby throws his hands up in the air. “Yeah. I don’t talk to your _Daddy_ anymore. Is your name John Winchester?”

Dean blinks at him. “No?”

“So pick up the damn phone next time!” He sweeps over to the door. “And get dressed, will ya? Everyone’s downstairs waiting on you.”

He barges out the door, flicking the lights on and off a few times for good measure before he slams it behind him. Dean collapses back onto his bed and tries not to puke.

***

True to Bobby’s word, when Dean shuffles into the dining room everyone else is already there. Jack is chattering to Bobby and Sam, and Charlie is at the continental breakfast spread, loading up a plate with as many pastries as she can fit. Castiel is slouched next to Jack, clutching a mug of coffee and looking like he’s considering committing violence on anyone who dares to speak to him. Dean takes a small comfort in that. At least he’s not the only one looking like death warmed over.

He ignores the breakfast spread—even the _smell_ of fake eggs and maple syrup is making him nauseous again—and collapses in the seat next to Cas. 

Sam sends him a wary look. “You doing okay, Dean? Looks like you had a rough night.”

“More like a rough morning,” Dean grumbles, glaring across the table at Bobby.

Bobby snorts, looking all too amused with himself.

“Aw, come on, Bobby,” another voice says from behind him. “Thought you were gonna go easy on him.”

“I did!” Bobby protests.

Dean realizes belatedly that the voice is _Ellen’s._ He swings around to stare at her—moaning when he moves too fast and head throbs painfully.

Ellen chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t hurt yourself, sweetie. It’s good to see you too.”

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” Dean asks her.

“Why do you think? Sam called Bobby and Bobby called me.”

Dean covers his face with his hands. “Ugh. I need coffee.”

Cas offers his coffee out to Dean and Dean takes it with a grateful noise. Sam’s whole face contorts in confusion, eyes flicking between them, but Dean studiously ignores him. He knows it probably makes a weird sight—Dean being all buddy-buddy with a guy whose guts he hated six hours ago. He doesn’t care. That’s like the only good thing about being on his own now. Dean doesn’t have to explain himself to anyone. Well…except sometimes Charlie.

He sneaks a glance at her to see if she’s giving him the _We need to talk later_ look, but she’s bouncing her way back to the table, more intent on her plate of food than on Dean and Cas. Dean lets himself relax a little more. 

Jack leans forward in his chair, curious gaze on Ellen. “So, if he’s their uncle…are you their aunt?” he asks. “Are you and Bobby married?”

Dean chokes on Cas’ coffee, and Bobby snorts some egg up his nose.

Ellen laughs. “The day I marry Bobby is the day you’ll know I’ve lost my mind.”

“Thanks a lot,” Bobby grouses.

“Oh.” Jack’s head is tilted, obviously trying to parse their relationship. Dean wants to tell him not to bother. Their family is so fucked up, a kid like Jack will never get it untangled. “Are you related to John Winchester?”

Ellen laughs harder. “Absolutely not. Thank God.” She spares a glance at Dean. “No offense, honey.”

“None taken.”

“We used to be a crew,” Ellen tells Jack. “John was the hitter and Mary was a damn good thief. I was the Grifter. And Bobby here, could run a con in his sleep. He was always the brain behind our operation. We were the best of friends. Family in everything but blood.”

There’s a hint of sadness in her voice, and Dean knows it’s because it didn’t stay that way. He may not have all the details, but he knows something happened that scattered them all across the Midwest—to Kansas, Nebraska, and South Dakota.

“Cool,” Jack breathes. “I’ve never had a crew. Or a family.”

Ellen raises an eyebrow. “Well, I can’t speak to family. But looks to me like you got a crew right here.”

“No,” Sam says, like he just can’t help it. “I’m supposed to go back to Palo Alto today.”

The reminder sours the coffee in Dean’s mouth. He sets down the mug and pushes it back towards Cas. “So, Sam called you, huh?” Dean asks Bobby. Might as well cut to the chase, since Sam has to leave so soon. “You here to tell us about Azazel?”

The name sends a cold blast of silence rippling around the table. Smiles dim and fingers fidget. Dean feels a little guilty for ruining the easy comradery of the morning, but if Bobby’s here to give them bad news, then he’d rather not play pretend.

“Yeah,” Bobby says, something heavy in his voice. “I am.”

Dean takes a breath. Decides to rip the band-aid off. “Look, we figured out Azazel hired one of those Free Will bastards to set the fire. But what I want to know is _why_.”

“Why does anything happen?” Bobby asks wryly. “It was a job that went bad.”

“They stole something from Azazel?” Sam asks. His whole face is contorted—like he doesn’t know whether to cry or shout.

“Yeah. Got it in their fool heads that they could do a job, just the two of them. They made it out, but not without leaving a bunch of tracks. Azazel decided he wanted revenge.”

“For what?” Dean spits. “Money? A statue? What the hell was worth a _life_? Why would Dad throw away our family for a quick score?”

“Who says it was your dad’s idea?” Bobby asks pointedly.

Dean subsides, shocked into silence.

“Your mom was made for the life,” Ellen says, a sad smile on her face. “She missed doing jobs when she was pregnant. Missed the rush she got from it. She wasn’t made to stay at home and be June Cleaver.”

“Why didn’t Dad ever tell us?” Sam asks, echoing Dean’s thoughts from last night.

“I don’t know, son,” Bobby sighs. “I think he wanted to when you got older, but by then it was probably too hard to bring it up.”

Dean snorts. He’s forgiven John Winchester a lot of things over the years, but this? This is something else. He supposes it’s only fitting that in the end, it’s Bobby and Ellen who tell them. They always seemed to get stuck doing the hard parts of parenting.

“So, what are we going to do about it?” Sam asks.

Dean blinks at him, surprised to see a sort of steely resolve in Sam’s eyes. “What? What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about? You heard Bobby. Azazel hired someone to _kill_ Mom. We can’t just let him get away with that.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Sam, we have to head back to Palo Alto. You said—”

“I’m not going back. At least not yet. I have to _do_ something.”

“Do something?” Charlie asks. “To Azazel?”

“No. To Free Will Enterprises. _They’re_ the ones who set the fire. How many other people’s lives have they taken? How many other families have they destroyed? How many _will_ they destroy if we don’t stop them?”

Charlie and Dean exchange a wide-eyed look.

“You want to get revenge?” Bobby asks.

“No,” Sam says. “This isn’t revenge. I want _justice_. Justice for mom, but also for every person in that ledger. For every powerless person who got screwed over just because some asshole had enough money to play judge, jury, and executioner. I want to _ruin_ them. I want to make sure they can _never_ do it again.” Dean stares at his brother. He looks lit up from the inside out with righteous anger. It’s pretty fucking cool. “So. Is anyone willing to help me?”

Surprisingly, it’s Castiel that speaks first. “I will.”

Dean nods, bolstered by his brother’s determination. “Fuck it. I’m in if you are, Sammy.”

“Me too,” Charlie says, with a determined nod.

Everyone looks over at Jack. He thinks for a moment before deciding: “Hell. Yes.”

Those words out of Jack’s mouth sends a cheer around the table. Charlie pounds him on the back and Sam turns to Ellen and Bobby, eyes wide with hope. Dean can relate. It feels nice to have a purpose.

“What about you two? We could use some help from the Old Guard.”

Ellen tilts her head, consideringly. “The Old Guard, huh? Sure. It’ll be like a last hurrah.”

“What the hell,” Bobby mutters, his eyes looking suspiciously bright under his hat. “You’re gonna need someone there to make sure you don’t royally screw the pooch.”

Sam looks around at all of their faces. He grins, positively feral. “We’ve got work to do.”


	8. The Second Job

Things move quickly after Sam rallies the troops. They end up in the room Charlie booked for Castiel and Jack—which is cleaner than the room Dean, Charlie, and Sam were sharing and doesn’t smell like dirty socks. Everyone is chattering excitedly, ready to make like David and take down the Goliath. It’s a weird job. They won’t be stealing anything, but they’ll be using their considerable skills to do something good. Make it right. There’s something healing about it.

“They’re going to have increased security since our last visit,” Castiel announces once they’re all settled. “It won’t be so easy to get in at night again.”

“Then we go during the day,” Sam decides. Like it’s that easy.

Castiel doesn’t seem to like the idea. “You should know that all of the upper management used to work in the field. They would be there during the day. You shouldn’t underestimate them.”

Sam frowns at him across the room. “How _exactly_ do you know that, Castiel?”

He gets a pinched look on his face. “I’ve…dealt with them before. I know how they operate.”

***

The rest of the day moves in much the same manner. Cas pipes up with random information about Free Will Enterprises. Sam is totally in his element. Him and Bobby have been bickering over the best ways to fuck over Free Will for hours, which means whatever plan they end up with is going to be rock-solid. Ellen’s talking to Jack and Charlie, telling them stories of old jobs—like that time she conned her way into a royal wedding. Hilariously, Jack is taking notes, but Charlie is just staring at Ellen with some drool collecting at the corner of her mouth. Dean can practically hear the alarm bells of _MILF! MILF!_ ringing in Charlie’s head.

Dean heaves himself up. “I’m gonna make myself useful and grab some dinner,” he says. “You want to keep me company, Cas?”

Cas nods shyly, like he’s still not sure how he and Dean became friends. Hell, Dean isn’t either, but he’s not gonna question it too much.

“Let me just grab my stuff,” he says. He heads across the hall to his room, wincing at the acrid smell of whiskey still clinging to the clothes he’d left in a heap on the floor. He must have sloshed some of his drink on himself at some point. “Hey, do you remember how we got back last night? I was super out of it.”

“I carried you back.”

Dean freezes in the action of leaning over his bed to reach his keys on the bedside table. “ _What_?”

“You asked me to.”

“I did not!” he spits immediately, face going crimson.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “You did. You said you wanted to see if I was as strong as I claimed to be.”

“Okay—that—” that _does_ actually sound like something Dean would say. Fuck. “That’s a _challenge_. That’s not the same as just asking you to carry me.”

“Is it?” Cas shrugs. He doesn’t seem to care.

Dean snatches his wallet and keys. All that’s left is his phone. He searches around, a little distracted this time. “So, what. We talking like piggyback ride or—?”

“Fireman’s carry,” Cas says.

“Oh,” Dean’s voice is a little higher than he would like. Great. So Cas just swung him up over his shoulders and carried him back 4 blocks. Wow. Awesome. Why does Dean have to get so messy when he’s drunk?

He comes up triumphantly with his phone, but pauses when he sees a notification for a voicemail. It’s not from a number he recognizes, but when he listens to it, he sure as fuck recognizes the voice.

“Dean, it’s me,” his dad barks. Fuck, even the sound of his voice makes Dean stand up straighter. He thought he was over that. “Sit tight. You got that? Do _not_ let that ledger out of your sight. You don’t know how important it is.” _I do now_ , Dean thinks mutinously. _No thanks to you._ “I’m gonna be hard to get a hold of for a while, but I’ll call when I can.”

That’s it. Not even a thank you. Just a _sit tight, I’ll call when I can._

Dean stares down at the phone in his hands before his face screws up in anger and he curls over, pressing his palms into his eyes—pressing so hard it hurts.

“…Dean?” Cas asks hesitantly from behind him. “What happened?”

“My dad,” Dean mutters shortly. “He’s such an asshole sometimes.”

“He called?”

Dean huffs out a humorless laugh, straightening back up. “Guess you could say that.” Dean wonders if he called while Dean was getting drunk with Cas last night, or if it was when they were learning the truth about Azazel from Uncle Bobby.

“Is he okay?”

“Who the hell knows, Cas? He certainly never tells me a damn thing.”

Cas is quiet for a moment.

“He wants us to sit tight,” Dean tells him.

“Meaning, he would disapprove of us going after Free Will Enterprises?”

“Yeah, probably.” Dean sighs. Thinks: _Fuck it_. “You know what, who cares? We’ve got our own shit to do. We can’t just sit around waiting for him to grace us with his presence.”

“I would say our shit is much more important than his shit,” Cas says.

“You think so?”

“Dismantling a murderous, criminal organization seems inherently more important than chasing down one man for revenge,” Cas says.

Dean feels a trickle of humor leak through him. He gives Cas a thankful, crooked smile. “Well, when you put it like that…”

***

The next morning dawns crisp and clear. Everyone is huddled in Charlie’s van and there’s really not enough room for seven people, but they make it work. Dean tries to relish it. This is probably the first and the last time all of these people will be together.

“Everyone’s clear on the plan?” Sam asks.

He’s met with solemn nods.

“Alright, Dean,” he says. “You’re up first.”

“Wish me luck,” Dean grins, winking at Charlie. She solemnly does the Vulcan salute.

“Dean,” Castiel says as Dean inches his way out of the cramped van. “Good luck.”

Cas is wearing an FBI windbreaker, a peek at what’s to come, and Dean pats him on the chest, right over the letters.

“I don’t need luck, Cas.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Then why did you—”

Dean grins and jumps out of the van, strolling down the street towards Free Will Enterprises. He wasn’t lying. He _doesn’t_ need luck. This might be the easiest job he’s ever had.

All he has to do is get caught.

It takes longer than Dean thinks it should for a supposedly _elite_ security firm to recognize there’s a bad guy in their midst. He gets all the way through the lobby (waving cheerfully at the security guard and handing over his ID for a visitor’s pass to be printed) and up the stairs before he starts getting weird looks. Sometimes Dean wonders if he’s _too_ good at blending. He’s been wandering around the sixth floor for seven minutes before a hand finally clamps onto his arm.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” a voice sneers.

***

Dean’s thrown into a room with a shitty little metal chair and plastic zip ties around his wrists. He has to fight the urge to slip out of the restraints and talk himself out of here. This is the first time he’s gotten caught on purpose.

_“We need to pull a Little Jack Horner,” Sam had said, with Bobby nodding approvingly next to him. “Dean, do you think you can get them to search you?”_

_“Easy.”_

_“Little Jack Horner…?” Jack frowned._

_“Even I don’t know this one,” Charlie added._

“These guys are clowns,” Dean mutters, eyes roving around the little box they’ve shoved him in. His wrists are falling asleep and he shifts uncomfortably.

Finally, someone strides in. He’s different from the other guards, Dean can sense it immediately. He’s tall and bald, with a detached sort of look on his face that suggests he’s used to seeing violence. He’s wearing a suit, not a general guard uniform.

“Why did you break into our building?”

“I didn’t. I walked through the front door.” He punctuates it with a shit-eating grin, but Baldy just frowns at him, looking at him like he’s nothing more than a bug in a microscope.

Dean hates guys like this.

Especially when he steps forward and backhands Dean across the face.

Dean lets out a surprised shout of pain, working his jaw back and forth when he sits up straight. Dean _really_ hates guys like this.

“Warn a guy next time, huh? I like it rough, don’t get me wrong; but it’s gotta be safe, sane, and consensual—”

He hits Dean again. Harder this time.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean mutters.

 _“Dean, you okay?”_ Sam says over the comms.

“Why did you break into our building?” Baldy asks.

“I was hired to,” Dean tells him, trying to ignore the throbbing in his jaw. He has to play this part juuuuust right…

“Who hired you?”

“Aw, come on. I tell you that, I’m a dead man.”

Baldy hums. “On the contrary. If you don’t tell _us_ , you’re a dead man.”

“So I’m dead either way?” Dean pretends to think. “Something about that doesn’t seem fair.”

“Why did they hire you?” Baldy asks, sounding impatient. “What did they want?”

“What everyone wants.” Dean lets himself squirm a little bit. “Information.”

“And did you find that information?”

Dean shakes his head, just a smidge too fast. “Nope.”

Baldy sighs. “I don’t believe you. Search him.”

_“A Little Jack Horner is when we want the mark to find something themselves.” Sam explained. “If you give them an artifact and tell them it’s real, they might not believe you. But if they find it themselves after digging and searching…then they feel they’ve earned it. They won’t question it.”_

_“I get it,” Charlie grinned. “So Jack Horner’s gonna stick his thumb into Dean’s pocket and pull out a…?”_

_“Plum?” Jack guessed._

_Sam sighed. “No, Jack.” He held up a tiny black rectangle. “A USB.”_

“Hey!” Dean yells, bucking and wiggling under the guards that come forward to search him. There’s no way he’s making this easy. “Get off me! I have constitutional rights, you know!”

“Shut up,” one of them growls. His hand goes to Dean’s pocket and he feels around, eyes flashing up to Dean’s. “What’s that?”

Dean bares his teeth. “Maybe I’m just happy to see you.”

The guard sneers at him and digs a hand into his pocket, pulling out the USB drive. Baldy takes a step off the wall where he’d been leaning.

“Oh,” he tsked. “You _have_ been a bad boy, haven’t you? What’s on the drive?”

“Nothing.”

Baldy smiles unfeelingly and then yanks the USB out of the guards hand. He opens the door. “Find out what’s on this,” he orders someone outside the room.

***

Back in the van, Charlie’s laptop starts beeping. “Yes!” she whoops. “They plugged the USB in! Oh, to be so naïve,” she sighs, fingers already moving like a madwoman.

“Now can we get Dean out of there?” Cas asks impatiently. Ever since the hits started rolling, Cas has been on the edge of his seat.

“Not yet, Cas,” Sam says, though he looks like he hates that fact. “We have other parts to play first.”

Ellen turns to Charlie. “Does that USB thingy mean you have access to their system now?”

“Oh yeah,” Charlie says. “You’re good to go.”

Ellen grins. “That’s our cue. Come on, Jack."

Ellen and Jack climb out of the van and stroll down the street. As they walk, Charlie’s typing furiously. She creates a press release, embeds a few email chains, and rearranges some meetings on the boss’s schedule all before they step foot into the lobby.

“Damn,” Charlie whispers to herself. “I’m good.”

***

“Good morning,” Ellen tells the receptionist. “I’m Tisha Mortenson? From Channel 5.”

“I’m her cameraman,” Jack announces woodenly.

Ellen smiles. “We’re here for an interview with Chuck Shurley.”

The receptionist checks the schedule with a bored glance. “IDs?”

Ellen and Jack hand over their newly supplied fake IDs. The receptionist punches a few numbers in the phone. “Your eleven o’clock is here. Okay.” She stands up and leads them towards a bored guard who does a perfunctory search of their bags. Ellen holds her breath when Jack hands over his "camera bag", but she needn't have worried. They're waved through and they follow the receptionist to the elevators. She swipes her card and presses the button for the top floor. “They’re expecting you.”

“Thanks,” Ellen says sweetly. Damn. It’s like taking candy from a baby.

By the time the elevator reaches the top floor, she’s the only one in it. A secretary gestures at the black leather armchairs lining the walls, barely looking up. “Please take a seat. Mr. Shurley will be with you in a moment.”

Ellen sits down and slides the bug out of her purse. It’s as tiny as an altoid and is practically unnoticeable when she hides it in her palm. Nothing to do now but sit back and wait for the show to start.

_“Ellen, you’ll just need to plant one bug.” Sam told her. “Jack, you’re in charge of the rest. Think you can handle that?”_

_Jack grinned. “I’m usually only taking things. I’ve never snuck into a place to add something.”_

_Sam rubbed his chin. “Are you up for the challenge?”_

_“Oh yeah.”_

“I like bugs,” Jack says into the comms. He’s already planted bugs on 8 floors. “Can you teach me how they work, Charlie?”

“ _Focus, Jack_ ,” Bobby says. “ _This is the important part. Don’t get distracted_.”

Jack immediately sobers. “Yes, sir.”

He darts along the hallway, crawls under a window, and slips into the stairwell where he jogs up to the sixth floor. He listens at the door for a second before peeking his head out. Coast clear.

“Package ready for pick-up,” Jack whispers. “Can I go?”

 _“Yeah, Jack, go ahead_ ,” Sam says. “ _We’ll be right behind you_.”

Jack steels himself and marches across the hallways to a door that’s shut tight, sneakers squeaking on the tile floor. He knocks on the door. “Open up!” he shouts. “You have my friend in there.”

The door swings open to reveal three incredulous guards and a bloody, grinning Dean behind them.

“Jack!” he calls happily.

“Hello!” Jack says. He has just enough time to raise his hand in greeting before the guard clamps down on his wrist and yanks him inside.

***

Dean isn’t so sure how he likes being referred to as a _package_. He’s sure there’s a joke in there somewhere. He’s also not convinced that he’s down with relying on a 90-pound teenager to get him out of here.

When Jack gets thrown inside next to Dean, half of him is thrilled that everything’s going to plan so far, and the other half is scared to death that they’re going to beat the shit out of Jack just to get Dean to talk. It’s the easiest ploy in the book, and he can just see the cogs turning in Baldy’s mind. He hopes to God that Sam’s almost in place.

“So, how do you two know each other?” Baldy asks, like they’re friends chatting it up over lunch.

“Don’t answer him,” Dean mutters, because it looks like Jack is about to. His jaw is throbbing and there’s a blood trickling down his face from somewhere above his eye.

“It’s funny,” Baldy says. “We had a break in last night, you know. Someone stole something very precious. Three people actually. You two match the descriptions of two of the perpetrators.”

“Huh,” Dean shrugs. “That’s weird.”

“I know you took the ledger,” Baldy snaps, suddenly losing whatever tenuous patience he’d possessed. “Listen here you little worms—”

A walkie talkie screeches to life. “Sir, uh, we’ve, uh. We’ve got a problem.”

Baldy sighs. “What? What is it? What could _possibly_ be the problem now?” he asks.

“The FBI is here.”

Dean takes pleasure in watching Baldy’s mouth go slack and the blood drain from the faces of his two lackeys.

Dean whistles lowly. “Uh-oh. Sounds like someone’s in trouble.”

***

Bobby hasn’t played the part of scowly FBI agent in a long time, but it’s like riding a bike. He’s glaring at everyone as he strides up to the front of the building, Sam and Cas not far behind him. Bobby’s done the intimidation act on his own, but there’s something to be said for having two guys as backup. Especially a guy as strong as Castiel and a guy as tall as Sam. They’re all in bright blue FBI windbreakers and it draws eyes to them like magnets. Bobby can hear the whispers start flying before they’re even in the building.

“Alright, listen up!” Bobby yells as soon as they burst into the lobby.

“Listen up!” Sam echoes behind him. Idjit.

“We’re FBI and we’re here with a warrant!” He waves the piece of paper in the air. It works like magic. People hear the W word and they panic. People start scattering like ants, guards jump on their radios, and Castiel quietly slips away in all the hub bub.

***

Mr. Shurley is staring at Ellen in utter confusion. She gives him a sunny smile back.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “You said you’re here for an interview?”

“Yep. For the newspaper.”

“But I don’t—you said you spoke to someone on the phone about this?”

“Oh yeah,” Ellen said. “Pretty sure it was your secretary. She called me and scheduled me in for today.”

Mr. Shurley pulls up his calendar for the third time since Ellen’s been sitting there and stares in confusion. INTERVIEW WITH TISHA MORTENSON it says right there at eleven o’clock. Ellen almost feels bad for the poor guy. Or she would. If he wasn’t CEO of an evil, conniving, murder-for-hire business. While he’s staring at the calendar, she leans forward and sticks the bug gently under the lip of his desk.

Just in time too. As she sits back in her chair, the door bursts open.

“Mr. Shurley,” the secretary gasps, looking frantic. Ellen recognizes that look well. That’s the FBI-Agent-Bobby-Singer’s-in-the-lobby Look. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. We have an emergency.”

Chuck stands, seemingly grateful for an excuse to end this interview he didn’t know he was having. “Well—uh—Trisha—"

“Tisha,” Ellen corrects helpfully.

“Yes, _Tisha_. I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to cut this short. Perhaps we can schedule another time…”

***

Charlie _loves_ bugs. It’s like reality TV, but _better_.

 _“What could they want?”_ She hears someone whispering frantically over a bug. _“They can’t know about the offshore bank accounts, can they?”_

Charlie grins maniacally. “They do _now_ ,” she mutters.

She clicks through all the channels, one after the other—and one after the other they spill the skeletons in their closets out at her feet.

Embezzling from clients.

Illegal weapons trading.

Murder.

Murder.

_Murder._

Now that she knows where to look, it’s easy to find what she needs. And with just a few more clicks, she’ll be—

Faint sirens sound from the distance. She takes out one earbud and listens carefully, heart pounding. Several SUVs careen around the corner, lights flashing.

_Feds._

_“We_ want _the real FBI to get there,” Sam reminded them. “But not too early. We need time to get away.”_

_“How do we know they’ll even show up?” Dean asked dubiously._

_“Please,” Charlie scoffed. “The Feds have a file on them as thick as a dictionary. If we get a tip about the ledger to them, they’ll be dying to investigate.”_

_“Okay,” Sam nods. “Do it.”_

Dean wiggles out of the zip ties, wincing as the plastic cuts into his hands. Baldy and his goons booked it out of here pretty fast when the “FBI” showed up, but they could be back any second. If they get back before Cas finds them, Dean wants to be ready to fight.

“You know how to throw a punch?” Dean asks Jack.

He gulps. “In theory.”

“Good enough for me.”

The door opens and Dean tenses, but it’s just Castiel that slips through the door.

“Time to go?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s eyes narrow when he takes in Dean’s bloodied face. “Time to go.”

“Come on,” Jack says, smiling excitedly. “I’ve never stolen a human before.”

Before they can move out, the door opens again and Baldy comes back through.

“Alright, I know you have—” he pauses, hissing. “Castiel?”

“ _Zachariah_ ,” Cas spits.

Dean barely has time to register that Cas apparently _knows_ this dickbag before Cas is launching himself at Zachariah. They spar violently, landing hits on each other—but it’s clear that Castiel is the better fighter. Zachariah is already out of breath, with a paunch around his belly from where he’s probably spent too much time sitting at his desk and watching other people do the fighting. Cas, on the other hand, almost looks bored.

He brings his fist around in a solid hit and Zachariah slumps in his grip. Cas follows him down and keeps hitting him. He doesn’t look bored anymore. He looks furious.

Jack takes an aborted step forward, face screwed up.

“Cas,” Dean says. “ _Cas_.”

Cas stops, throwing Zachariah down to the ground. “Do you have _any_ idea what this man’s done?”

Dean grabs Cas’ shoulder, trying to bring him back to the present. There’s a story here, but they don’t have time to listen to it. “No. But we can’t lose sight of the bigger picture.”

Cas huffs out a breath. Eyes staring angrily down at Zachariah. He looks away for a moment, jaw working, before he finally asks: “Do you have any of those zip ties?”

Jack, who is seemingly incapable of meeting someone and _not_ stealing something from them—pulls out a few from his pocket.

“Really?” Dean asks as Cas binds up Zachariah’s hands.

Jack shrugs. “I like to collect things. I also have a marker, a toothpick, and a paper clip.”

“Who _are_ you, MacGyver?”

“Who is MacGyver?” Castiel asks, to Dean’s utter horror. “I’ve never worked with him.”

Okay. Dean is fixing that. As soon as they get out of here, Dean is sitting Cas down for a marathon, no questions asked.

“Oh, I also have this—” Jack pulls something out of his waistband. Dean does a double take. It’s a 9mm Glock by the looks of it, and Jack is just turning it over in his hands, peering at it curiously.

“Where the hell’d you get that?” he barks.

“I took it from a guard. Do you want it, Castiel?”

“I don’t like guns,” Cas answers.

“Oh great,” Dean mutters. “Two MacGyvers. I’m working with two MacGyvers.”

Cas sends Dean a frustrated look and takes the marker from Jack. Dean takes the gun—tucking it into his own waistband, where he’s sure it’s much safer. Cas picks out a crumpled piece of paper from the trash can in the corner.

He scribbles a note on the paper and lets it float down to Zachariah’s body. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Dean grins. “Music to my ears, Cas.”

Just then Charlie’s voice cuts gleefully through their comms. “ _The Feds are here.”_

“Are they early?” Cas asks.

“No,” Dean frowns, checking his watch. “We’re late. Get us out of here, Jack.”

"Alright." Jack slips something else out from his waistband. "Just have to do one last thing..."

***

Sam has never been so happy to see Federal agents.

They swing in from all directions, screeching to a stop in front of the Free Will offices. FBI agents flood out, jogging up to the lobby.

A black man with a thunderous look on his face strides over to them. “What the hell are you doing here? This is _my_ operation.”

“Then we’ve been waiting for _you_ ,” Bobby grouses. “Are you Henrikson?”

The man’s scowl twists. “Yes. But you shouldn’t have come in without me. I’ve been trying to nail them for years. If you spooked them—if they destroyed any evidence—”

“Relax,” Bobby says, with a roll of his eyes. “We spooked ‘em alright. But there’ll be plenty of evidence.”

On cue, the music playing on the speakers cuts out and is replaced by recordings of panicked employees.

_“Why do you think they’re here? Should we get rid of the records?”_

_“They can’t know about the illegal weapons in the safe, can they?”_

_“Dammit, I knew they would connect us to that job in Memphis. I knew we shouldn’t have agreed to kill that kid.”_

_Thank you, Charlie_ , Sam thinks.

Special Agent Henrikson blinks. “Huh. Looks like it’s my lucky day.”

***

It is not Dean Winchester’s lucky day.

“I am _not_ jumping off a roof,” he spits. “You’re insane.”

Castiel looks exasperated. “There are real FBI agents in the building now. This is the only way out of the building without being seen.”

Dean’s sweating. His legs are shaking. He peers over the edge and yanks himself back, hand twisting tightly into Castiel’s windbreaker. “Not. Happening.”

“Don’t be scared, Dean,” Jack says. He’s finished hooking up his harness and is working on Castiel’s.

“I’m not scared!” Dean snaps on reflex, though he really, really is. Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. “Shut up.”

The camera bag that Jack carried into the building is open. The video camera is discarded, but he keeps pulling more and more cables and harnesses out of hidden pockets.

“You had this planned,” he realizes suddenly. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

 _“Because I knew you would freak out,”_ Sam mutters. _“Dean, come on. Me and Bobby are heading out. Ellen’s at the van. We’re just waiting on you guys.”_

“Fuck,” Dean mutters. Jack starts buckling him into the harness. “ _Fuck_.”

“Trust me, Dean,” Jack says. “It’s fun.”

“Our definitions of fun are not the same.”

 _“Dean,”_ Charlie says suddenly. _“I see some guards on the camera. They’re heading up to the roof. You gotta get out of there.”_

Jack takes a running leap off the edge with no warning. “ _Whoo_!” he cries joyfully. Dean’s whole stomach tries to crawl up his throat.

“Uh-uh,” he says, shaking his head. “Nope. Cas can fight them off, right Cas?”

He looks at Cas desperately. Cas rolls his eyes, but thankfully takes pity on him. “Yes,” he says, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll fight them off.”

Dean relaxes, blowing out a thankful breath. “Thanks man—”

Cas hand tightens and pulls, yanking Dean into his grip and then off the roof with him in the next step.

“God _dammit_ , Caaaaaaas!” Dean screams, scrabbling desperately to wrap his arms, legs, hell—his whole body around Cas. He closes his eyes tight and waits for death.

It’s over in a few seconds, Cas thumping down ungracefully in the bushes at the back of the building. Dean’s heart is throbbing in his throat, his hands clammy with panicked sweat. He shoves away from Cas, doing his best to salvage his dignity. It was confusing in mid-air. Maybe Cas just missed how Dean was clinging to him.

The smile he’s trying to bite back suggests otherwise.

“I hate you,” he informs Cas, once he has his breath back. There’s raucous laughter in his earbud. “I hate _all_ of you!” 

***

“ _Arrest me_ ,” Victor Henrikson reads bemusedly. “ _I’m a lying, murdering, assbutt._ Huh.”

He stares down at the man the sign was left on. His name is Zachariah Adler. Victor recognizes him from case files he could never close. As far as he’s concerned, whoever wrote this sign did him a favor. They tied Adler up like a little present for the FBI Agent lucky enough to stumble across him. Damn, it really is his lucky day.

“We can’t find Chuck Shurley,” one of his agents tells him. “He must have jumped ship.”

“We’ll track him down eventually.” Can’t catch all the chickens in one day. “In the meantime, let’s read Adler his rights.”

Zachariah stares up at him mutinously. “You can’t arrest me. I was attacked. I was the victim of a crime!”

Victor raises a dubious eye. “We can arrest you _and_ investigate your attack. Those two things are not mutually exclusive.” He sighs. “If you want to cooperate, this might go easier on you. We got a tip there was a ledger on the premises. You know where it is?”

At that, Adler bursts out into laughter. “You’re here for the ledger? Good luck with that.”

“You know about it?”

“Of course I know about it! Those assholes who attacked me stole the ledger. It’s gone.”

“You’re talking about the ledger that holds proof of Free Will’s role in hundreds, if not thousands, of deaths across the country? That ledger?”

“It _allegedly_ holds proof,” Zachariah sneers as two agents help him to his feet.

“Hm.” Victor bends down and picks up a worn brown book that had been tucked under Adler’s prone body. He flips through it. “Is it _this_ ledger?”

Adler’s face has drained of color. “No,” he rasps. “They took it. They—they must have brought it back. They planted it on me!”

Victor cocks his head. “Let me get this straight. Your story is that thieves stole this ledger, and then returned to the scene of the crime, beat you up, and planted the ledger on your body. And then they disappeared without being seen by any FBI agents?”

“Yes!” Adler says.

“Are you sure you weren’t trying to destroy evidence and someone decided to stop you?”

“No! No they took it!” His eyes are rolling wildly. “It was Castiel! Look for Castiel! He did it!”

Victor rolls his eyes. “Get him out of here, guys.” They drag Adler out of the room, still screaming nonsense.

Victor tucks the ledger under his arm and lopes out of the room, whistling jauntily down the hall. Out the window, he sees a bright yellow van speed past.


	9. Dean

_“This is Kelly Ryan with Channel 6 news, coming to you with a developing story. A private security firm in Jericho is the subject of federal investigation today thanks to an anonymous tip. The firm and its employees are allegedly facing charges for tax fraud, illegal weapons possession, and most disturbingly: several counts of conspiracy to murder and murder-for-hire. Perhaps the biggest question on investigators’ minds though, is who called in the tip? Recordings of employees discussing these crimes were anonymously provided to federal agents and an incriminating ledger was found in the possession of Zachariah Adler, who is being held without bail—”_

The bartender flips the channel to a sports game, unaware of the seven eyes and ears that are gleefully watching the newscast. Dean turns to face their table—broad smile threatening to take over his face. He raises his glass. “Well how about that for a job well done? Huh? You guys hear that?”

“Chuck Shurley is still in the wind,” Castiel points out. “As well as several high-ranking managers.”

“The Feds will catch up with them sooner or later,” Charlie says. “I'll make sure of it. Just be happy, Cas. We did it!”

“We did it,” Sam repeats. He lets out an incredulous laugh. “We _actually_ did it. I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it, Sammy,” Dean grins. He slides a grin over to Cas. “We fucked those assbutts _good_.”

“Ew!” Charlie groans. Sam wrinkles his nose.

“Yes, we fucked them _very_ thoroughly,” Cas puts in. His voice sounds serious, but he quirks his lips minutely in his blink-and-you’ll-miss-it grin. Dean barks out a surprised laugh.

“Cas, not you too,” Sam moans. He shoots a glare at Dean, like it's his fault the guy has a sense of humor.

"I think I liked it better when they weren't friends," Charlie confides to Sam in an undertone, though Dean can tell by her grin that she's joking.

"Lucky for you, we _aren't_ friends," Dean announces. "Not anymore."

"Why not?" Cas frowns. "I haven't touched your car."

"No, you just threw me off a _building!"_

Jack snorts some beer up his nose. He’s only had a glass, but he’s already tipsy. Dean is pretty sure this is the first time the kid’s ever had a drink.

“Are you still upset about that?” Cas asks, sounding genuinely confused.

“Yes!” Dean shouts. “Friends don’t throw friends off of buildings, Cas.”

“That was not one of your friendship rules.”

“It is now!”

“Well,” Bobby interrupts, clapping his hands on his thighs. “I hate to break this party up, but I've got a plane to catch. You boys did a good thing today. I'm proud of you.”

“Yeah,” Ellen grins as she slides off her stool. “Thanks for inviting the Old Guard.”

"Thanks," Sam says. He looks bashful about it, but he shouldn't. Dean's pretty sure this is the best thing they've ever done. In their _life_.

"You'll keep in touch, right Sam?" Ellen asks.

“I will,” he promises.

“I’ve heard _that_ before,” Bobby says gruffly.

Sam flushes. “I promise, Bobby. I will. I can’t thank you enough for being here. For helping us. I think I realized something.” Dean can't help but eavesdrop, drawing designs in his glass's condensation as he listens. “I was trying so hard to leave the bad stuff behind, that I accidentally left the good stuff behind too. And there’s a lot of good stuff. I won’t forget that again.”

Dean smiles to himself.

“That’s right,” Ellen says roughly. “And if you do, I’ll kick your ass myself.”

Ellen and Bobby give everyone hugs before leaving the bar, even Cas--who looks hilariously stiff as he pats their backs. Then, with a wave, they walk out arm in arm, silhouettes heading out into the sunset.

The departure sobers everyone up a little, and they fall into a quieter sort of companionship.

“This is my favorite job I’ve ever done,” Jack sighs happily.

“Mine too,” Charlie says, resting her head on Jack’s shoulder.

 _Mine too_ , Dean realizes. He feels a bolt of fondness for everyone run through him, hand in hand with an ache of melancholy.

"I guess we should get on the road too," Dean says, with a questioning look at Sam.

"Yeah, I guess so," Sam says. He doesn't sound excited. Selfishly, Dean is glad about that. 

"Come on, Sammy. Chin up. You've wanted to be a lawyer since you were like twelve."

Sam shrugs. "It's weird. I used to think that Stanford is where I would have ended up if mom was alive." He laughs. "I used to think mom being alive meant that we would've had a normal life. But hearing Ellen talk about her--hearing how much she loved the life.... I don't know anymore. Maybe our life would've been just as fucked up _with_ her as it was _without_ her."

"Yeah," Dean sighs. "I know what you mean." It's tough to reconcile the image of the Mary he keeps in his head--someone who wore sundresses and had impeccable hair and baked pies all day--with the truth of who she really was. His vision seems so stupidly Stepford wife now. "I think we probably would've been a _little_ more well-adjusted."

Sam snorts. "It all just seems so pointless, you know? In the grand scheme of things. Today we did something really, really good. We made a real difference. Tomorrow I'll be studying for quizzes and making copies again."

The melancholy in Dean's chest spikes stronger. "I mean you don't _have_ to be." He probably shouldn't have said it. There's nothing Sam hates more than trying to be controlled. But he looks so glum. If he needs an out, then Dean can sure as hell provide one. 

"Yes, I do, Dean," Sam sighs. "You're paying my tuition. You've been paying it. For years. I can't just drop out."

"Sure you can," Dean says. "I hate to break it to you, Sam, but I wasn't exactly using my own money. If you don't want to go back, then don't. Don't torture yourself on my account."

Sam stares at him. "It can't be that simple. You'd be fine with me just _quitting?_ "

"You wouldn't be quitting," Dean says. "Not really. You would just be...changing lanes."

Sam makes a face. "Car metaphors, dude? Really?"

"Hey, if it works, it works." 

"It just...it felt really nice to make the bad guys pay. It felt pure."

"I liked making the bad guys pay too," Jack admits. 

"Yeah," Dean huffs. "Too bad making the bad guys pay doesn't pay the bills. That's not how the life works."

“Uh, _actually_ …” Four sets of eyes swing over to Charlie, and she squeaks. “I may have kinda-sorta cleaned out one of their offshore accounts.”

“You _what_?” Dean asks.

“What? You can’t expect a girl to learn about an offshore account and not drain it! I didn’t want them to use the money to hire a fancy-schmancy lawyer like Sam and get out of the charges. I was going to wire you guys the money to thank you for helping out.”

Cas frowns. “I didn’t give you my bank account information.”

“Like I need it,” Charlie scoffs.

Dean holds up his hand before Cas, looking extremely disturbed, can respond. "So let me get this straight: We fucked over the people who killed mom _and_ we got paid for it?"

Sam laughs. "Maybe we can make our own life. We can make a difference. Figure it out together."

"Like a crew?" Jack asks. He looks painfully hopeful. 

Sam nods. "Yeah. Like a crew. If you guys want to."

Dean can't hide the grin that breaks out over his face. He practically knocks over his drink as he wrestles Sam into a bone-crushing hug. "Dude, if you really want to, I'm in," he says, over Sam's protests. "Helping people, fucking assbutts. The _new_ family business."

Ugh,” Sam groans. “I _already_ changed my mind.”

Charlie grins at him and throws her arms around Dean and Sam. “No take-backs,” she chirps.

Jack worms his way into the hug too, and then it's just Cas--sitting on the outside and staring down at the table like it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

"Hey," Dean barks at him. "Get over here, Cas."

Cas blinks at him, startled. Like he didn't think he was allowed to join. They'll have to work on that. Hesitantly, he stands and wraps an arm around Charlie, but Dean grabs him by the tie and hauls him in, until they're all part of the big, messy group hug.

"A toast," Charlie announces as they break apart. "To us."

"We need another round for that," Dean says. "I'll be right back."

He heads over to the bar, feeling lighter than he has in years. He almost can't believe it. He has his brother back with him, they're doing something meaningful. And he has a crew. Full of _really_ good people. 

Someone leans against the bar beside him. Cas. 

"I thought you might want some help carrying all the drinks back to the table," he says. 

Dean smiles at him. "Thanks, Cas. Hey, uh. You're sticking around too, right?"

"Yes. I would like to."

"Good. Good." Dean tries to flag down the bartender and fails to get his attention. "I'm happy you're--oh, sorry--" His pocket starts to vibrate. He catches sight of the number, and every ounce of good feeling leaks out of him. Like he's a balloon that was savagely popped. 

Fuck. He stares at the phone. His _dad_. The last thing John Winchester told him to do was sit tight and to not let the ledger out of his sight. He's got to be calling because he knows Dean didn't listen, right? Maybe he turned on the news, saw that the FBI has the ledger. _Maybe he's calling to congratulate you on a job well done_ , part of his brain says. _Maybe he's calling to tell you you're a fucking disappointment._

"Dean?" Cas says, like it's not the first time he's tried to get his attention. 

"Sorry," Dean says. "It's--my dad's calling. He's gonna be pissed."

"Maybe you should ignore it," Cas says. 

Dean stares at the phone. Ignore it? He _always_ answers. That's his _thing_. Other people ignore Dean's calls, but Dean always answers. When's the last time he ignored a call from his dad? 

"Maybe I should," Dean says, a sharp edge of nerves jangling through him. "More important things to do, right? I'm not going to let him ruin today for us." Very deliberately, he slides the phone back into his pocket--where it vibrates two more times before it falls quiet. It's fucking pathetic to be so proud of himself for something so simple, but there it is. 

"I don't think I like your father," Cas decides, finally succeeding in getting the bartender's attention. 

"Yeah," Dean says. "You wouldn't be the first guy."

He turns to look at Sam and Charlie and Jack, laughing together at their table. At Cas, solemnly ordering drinks like it's the most important thing he's ever done. At his crew. His fledgling family. His phone buzzes with a notification. A voicemail. Dean doesn't check it. There are more important things for him to think about.

"Dean!" Charlie calls, waving him back towards the table. "We have an idea for our next job!"

Way more important things. 


End file.
